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CLEYE    HALL. 


BY 

E.    M.    SEWELL, 


'Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this, 
That  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation." — The  Merchant  of  Vemcc. 


NEW  YOllK: 

D.    ATPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

1,  3,  AND  5  BOND  STEEET. 

1881. 


CLEVE  HALL, 


CHAPTEU  I. 


IT  was  an  old,  gable-ended  Farm-touse,  standing  back  froJi 
tbe  road,  with  a  smootb  piece  of  turf  in  front,  neatly  kept, 
and  divided  down  tbe  centre  by  a  broad  strip  of  pavement. 

Five  or  six  large  elm  trees  sbaded  it  on  the  left ;  on  .he 
ri"-ht,  behind  some  broad  meadows,  rose  a  steep  bank,  forming 
the  further  extremity  of  a  rocky  ravine,  through  which  ran  a 
by-road  from  the  highway,  probably  leading  to  some  seques- 
tered hamlet.  The  whole  surface  of  the  country  was  hilly, 
almost  claiming  the  appellation  of  mountainous.  A  long  range 
of  steep  downs  stretched  for  a  considerable  distance  beyond 
the  ravine  towards  the  north-east ;  whilst  in  front  of  the  farm, 
at  about  the  distance  of  a  mile,  the  horizon  was  bounded  by  a 
hill,  clothed  with  thick  plantations,  amongst  which  the  sighing 
of  the  soft  evening  wind  was  heard  mingling  with  the  heavy 
swell  of  the  ocean. 

The  view  was  very  lovely  seen  in  the  mellow  evening  light ; 
the  meadows  rich  with  the  golden  flowers  of  early  summer,  and 
the  fresh  green  on  the  trees  and  hedges,  sparkling  as  their 
trembling  leaves  caught  the  glancing  rays  of  the  sinking  sun. 
Yet  it  was  solitary.  No  building  was  in  sight  except  the 
quaint,  gray  Farm-house,  with  its  ivy-covered  chimneys,  and 
broad,  open  porch ;  and  though  there  were  sounds  about  the 
farm, — the  carter-boy's  whistle, — the  clatter  of  the  milk-pails, 
as  the  dairymaids  crossed  the  yard, — and  occasionally  the 
neighing  of  a  horse,  or  the  lowing  of  a  cow;  yet  they  were  all 
hushed, — softened  by  that  indescribable  atmosphere  of  quiet- 
ness, which  prepares  the  gentle  evening  for  the  deeper  so- 
lemnity of  night. 

A  woman,  who  might  have  been  about  fifty  years  old — the 
mistress  of  the  farm  apparently — was  leaning:  over  the  loi« 

857109 


G  CLKVH    HALL. 

qarden-wall.  She  was  ratliLT  poculiar  in  appearance;  her 
dress  scnipuli)usly  neat,  but  decidedly  old-fashioned ;  the  cot- 
ton cown  scanty  and  rather  short;  a  checked  haudkercliief 
fiilded  over  her  shoulders,  and  a  cap  white  as  snow,  and  quilled 
in  ]-»('rfect  order,  fitting  close  around  a  pale,  worn  face.  Iler 
attitude  told  that  she  was  listening,  and  the  breeze  brought  to 
the  Ciir  the  distant  trampling  of  a  horse,  departing  however, 
not  ajijjroaching.  It  was  followed  with  fixed  attention,  till  the 
last  echo  had  died  away,  and  then  a  sigh  was  heaved,  and 
slowly  and  thoughtfully  the  woman  walked  tc wards  the  house. 

"  Mrs.  llobiuson  !  Nurse!  Granny,  dear!  won't  you  speak 
to  me  ?"  said  a  quick,  merry  voice,  and  a  child  of  about  thir- 
teen years  of  age,  though  in  height  and  size  very  much  younger, 
threw  open  the  heavy  wicket-gate,  and  ran  up  to  her.  The 
woman  turned  suddenly,  a  smile  passed  over  her  face,  a  mix- 
ture of  pleasure  and  respect,  yet  her  toue  had  something  in  it 
of  reproach. 

"  Out  alone,  jMiss  Rachel !  what  does  your  papa  say  to  that  ?" 

"  Oh  !  papa  is  gone  in  to  see  John  Strong,  and  I  ran  on 
before  him.  I  shall  be  at  home  now  before  he  is.  He  is 
coming  to  see  you,  Granny." 

"  He  said  he  would,"  was  the  reply. 

"And  you  think  he  always  keeps  his  word,  don't  you? 
Give  me  a  kiss  and  let  me  go ;  I  must  be  at  home  and  have  a 
talk  with  Miss  Campbell  and  Ella  before  papa  returns;  so  keep 
him  as  long  as  you  can."  She  threw  her  arm  around  her 
friend's  neck.  ''  Granny,  you  aren't  happy  to-night,"  she 
whispered. 

"  Happy  as  I  can  be,  IMiss  Rachel,  when  there's  so  mucL 
in  the  world  to  make  one  otherwise.  But  you  don't  know  any- 
thing of  that,  so  run  home  and  be  thankful." 

liachel  stood  for  a  moment  in  thought.  The  change  in  her 
face  was  very  marked.  It  was  a  countenance  formed  for  hap- 
piness, brilliant  with  intelligence,  radiant  in  health,  and  singu- 
larly lovely  in  its  outline.  Rut  the  small,  laughing  mouth,  and 
the  merry  hazel  eyes,  and  open  forehead,  shaded  by  curls  of 
bright,  chestnut  hair,  might  have  been  termed  infantine  till 
thought  came ; — then  the  whole  being  seemed  to  alter,  and  the 
gay  child  became  in  one  instant  the  self-collected,  deeply  in- 
(juiring  woman. 

_  "I  don't  know  anything  about  it,  I  suppose.  Granny,"  she 
said,  in  reply  to  3Irs.  Robinson's  remark,  "  though  I  think  I 
do  sometimes.     Shall  I  ever  know  it  as  you  do  ?" 


CLEYE    HALL.  7 

"  That's  for  days  to  come,  Miss  Racliel.     \Ylio  can  tell  ?" 

"You  can,"  said  Rachel,  quickly;  then,  correcting  her- 
self, she  added,  revei-eutly,  "  I  don't  mean  you  can  tell  what  is 
to  happen,  but  you  can  say  whether  I  shall  be  likely  to  have 
the  same  things  to  bear  that  you  have." 

"  God  forbid  you  should  ever  have  to  trouble  for  the  same 
things  that  trouble  me,  Miss  Rachel.  Things  must  be  bad 
indeed  if  they  are  not  mended  by  that  time." 

"  And  the  General  won't  live  for  ever,"  said  Rachel, 
quickly;  but  a  glance  at  her  friend's  face  made  her  retract 
her  words.  "I  don't  want  him  to  die,  you  know,  Granny; 
but  it  is  always  something  about  him  which  itakes  papa,  and 
you,  and  eveiy  one  unhappy ;  so  I  can't  like  him,  and  I 
couldn't  be  soriy  if  he  were  gone  away  anywhere." 

*'  There's  many  a  worse  man  than  General  Vivian  goes  for 
a  saint  in  this  world.  Miss  Rachel,"  replied  Mrs.  Robinson, 
"  as  you  may  some  day  know  to  your  cost.  Poor  old  man  ! 
If  he  makes  others  sad,  he  is  sad  enough  himself." 

"  He  doesn't  look  sad,"  said  Rachel.  "  He  doesn't  seem  as 
if  he  felt  anything." 

"That's  what  folks  say  of  me,  sometimes.  Miss  Rachel;" 
and  a  smile,  which,  however,  gave  only  a  wintry  brightness  to 
the  grave  face,  accompanied  the  words.  Rachel  once  more 
caressed  her  fondly. 

"Granny,  Granny,  that's  naughty.  Papa  says,  if  you  had 
a  colder  heart  you  would  have  a  merrier  face.  But  it's  merry 
enough  for  me.  There's  not  a  face  in  all  the  village,  away  from 
home,  that  I  love  so  well,  except " 

"Except  whose?  Don't  be  afraid.  Miss  Rachel;  you 
know  I  am  not  given  to  being  jealous  !" 

"  Well !  one  that's  more  to  you  than  I  am,  though  I  love 
you  dearly.  So  we  can't  be  jealous  when  we  both  love  the 
same." 

"  Miss  Mildred  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Robinson  ;  "but  I  always 
put  her  aside.  I  thought  it  might  be  some  of  the  newer  friends 
that  you  had  taken  to." 

"  Miss  Campbell,  and  Ella,  and  Clement,"  replied  Rachel, 
gayly.  "  No ;  I  love  them  all,  you  know  I  must,  they  are  so 
kind :  but  they  are  not  like  your  dear  old  face.  Granny-;  they 
are  not  parts  of  the  very  old  times." 

"Thirteen  years  ago!  eh,  Miss  Rachel?  What  an  age  to 
?)e  sure  1  But  you  do  grow,  I  will  say  that  for  you;  you  wil! 
be  a  W(nnan  after  all,  if  you  live  long  enough." 


»  CLEVE    HALL. 

"Thank  you,  Granny,  dear!  I  hope  I  stall.  Now  pleasfl 
t^atluT  nil!  a  whole  heaj)  of  tlic  climbing  roses  for  !Mr.s.  Camp- 
bell. She  always  likes  to  have  flowers  brought  her,  though 
she  doesn't  keep  them  long." 

'.«.  llachel's  hands  were  lilled  with  the  best  roses  which  grew 
against  the  house,  and  the  best  lavender  from  the  farm  garden, 
under  the  promise,  however,  that  she  was  not  to  give  all 
away,  but  to  retain  some  for  herself  for  a  remembrance.  Her 
ringing  laugh,  as  the  injunction  was  given,  made  the  old 
walls  echo  again. 

^'  Why,  Granny,  as  if  I  needed  it !  Don't  I  think  of  you 
every  morning,  and  don't  I  talk  to  papa  about  you  every 
night? — what  should  I  need  a  remembrance  for?  Do  you 
know,"  and  her  tone  changed,  as  she  placed  one  finger  against 
her  heart,  "it's  written  in  here;  I  can  feel  it,  though  I  don'l 
see  it — your  name,  I  mean ;  and  there  are  others,  too — and  I 
know  I  shall  never  want  kcep.sakes  like  some  people,  for  I 
can't  forget;  no,  if  I  wished  it,  I  couldn't." 

A  kiss  was  the  an.swcr,  lingering  and  fond,  like  that  of  a 
parent,  and  a  murmur,  "  Heaven's  blessing  on  you,  child !" 
and  Rachel  tossed  the  wicket-gate  open,  and  ran  quickly  up 
the  road  which  passed  through  the  ravine. 


CHAPTER  IL 


IT  was  about  an  hour  later  the  same  evening ;  lights  were 
glimmering  in  the  cottages  dotted  by  the  side  of  the  narrow 
road,  and  perched,  as  it  seemed,  upon  almost  inaccessible 
rocks,  which  formed  the  picturesque  village  of  Encombe ;  and 
although,  here  and  there,  might  be  seen  a  laborer  returning 
from  some  distant  work,  or  a  woman  wearily  toiling  up  a  height 
after  an  errand  to  the  nearest  town,  the  cottagers  were,  for  the 
most  part,  collecting  around  their  own  hearths,  and  even  the 
voices  of  the  children  were  gradually  being  hushed  in  sleep. 
At  the  lower  end  of  a  steep  strip  of  garden,  reached  by  a 
flight  of  steps  from  the  road,  two  persons,  a  man  and  a  boy, 
were,  however,  conversing  together,  as  they  stood  looking  up 
the  village,  nearly  the  whole  length  of  which  was  visible, 
from  the  Doint  they  had  chosen.     The  occupation  of  the  man 


CLEVE    HALL.  9 

was  evident  at  tlie  first  sight;  lie  was  a  weather-beaten,  liardy 
fisherman — probably  a  smuggler — for  there  was  an  expression 
of  cunning  in  his  keen,  black  eyes,  and  a  sneer  upon  his  lip, 
which  accorded  little  with  the  free,  frank  tone  and  manner 
natural  to  an  ordinary  seafcaring  life.  His  glance,  moreover, 
showed  the  quickness  of  one  accustomed  to  watch,  and  be 
watched;  and  his  tone,  when  he  spoke,  had  in  it  an  accent 
of  command.  The  boy  also  wore  a  sailor's  hat,  and  his  coat 
was  rough,  and  his  striped,  blue,  linen  shirt  made  of  coarse 
material.  Yet  even  a  cursory  inspection  would  certainly  have 
suggested  a  doubt  whether  the  two  were  equals  in  rank.  The 
age  of  the  lad  might  have  been  eighteen ;  his  face  was  bronzed 
by  exposure  to  storms,  and  his  manner  betrayed  a  mind  im- 
patient of  control,  and  caring  little  for  the  refinements  of 
civilized  life ;  but  his  features  were  totally  free  from  the  look 
of  cunning  which  was  so  marked  in  those  of  his  companion. 
His  blue  eye,  indeed,  was  peculiarly  clear  and  open  in  its 
expression,  though  flashing  with  all  the  keenness  of  a  passionate 
spirit ;  his  forehead  was  thoughtful ;  his  mouth  told  of  pride 
and  great  wilfulness,  and  yet  its  haughty  curl  seemed  occa- 
sionally about  to  melt  into  a  smile  of  sad,  almost  feminine 
sweetness ;  and  his  voice,  even  when  he  spoke,  shortly  and 
contemptuously,  had  a  refined  intonation,  belonging  to  a  very 
different  class  from  that  of  his  companion.  He  might  have 
been  formed  for  high  and  noble  purposes,  yet  he  lingered  now 
in  the  society  of  his  rough  comrade,  apparently  with  no 
thought  but  that  of  idly  passing  away  time  which  he  had 
neither  inclination  nor  energy  to  employ. 

Full  twenty  minutes  elapsed,  and  still  he  leaned  upon  the 
garden-gate,  sometimes  speaking  to  the  fisherman,  but  more 
often  gazing  with  a  fixed  eye  before  him.  Occasionally,  how- 
ever, he  stooped  to  pick  up  a  stone,  and  tossed  it  down  the 
;5tecp  bank,  and  watched  it  as  it  tumbled  from  point  to  point, 
till  touching  a  sharp  point  of  rock,  it  perhaps  fell  with  a 
quick  impetus  into  the  foaming  brook  that  rushed  down  the 
centre  of  the  ravine. 

He  had  just  cast  another  stone;  it  did  not  follow  its  prede- 
cessors; the  twisted  root  of  a  tree  stopped  it,  and  it  sank 
quietly  into  its  place  upon  the  bank. 

''They  don't  all  go,"  murmured  the  boy  to  himself. 

"  What  don't  go  '("  asked  the  man,  with  a  surly  smile. 

"  Nothing  that  you  know  of,"  was  the  reply.  "  Is  he 
coming  yet  T' 


10  CLKVi:    HAL!.. 

*' Can't  say;  don't  sec  him.  Suppose,  noAV,  you  were  to 
make  the  best  use  of  your  leers,  and  be  off  to  the  flagstaff  to 
see.     It's  not  much  of  a  stretch." 

<' IMore  than  I  choose  to  take,"  answered  the  boy;  and  he 
flnnt;  himself  upon  the  ground.  "I  am  not  made  for  that  at 
least,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

The  fishornian  evinced  no  sui-prise  at  the  refusal,  but  open- 
ing the  gate,  descended  the  steps,  and  sauntered  a  few  paces 
up  the  road.  A  merry  shout,  a  few  moments  afterAvards, 
caught  the  boy's  ear,  and  he  stai-ted  up. 

"Weil;  he's  come;  it  can't  be  helped."  He  flung  the 
gate  open,  and  at  one  spring  bounded  into  the  road. 

The  fisherman  stood  on  the  projecting  point  of  a  rock  clos- 
ing in  the  angle  of  the  road,  and  beckoned  to  him.  The  boy 
still  paused.  Once  he  even  turned  directly  away,  and  went  a 
few  paces  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  waited  for  an  instant, 
as  if  iindecided  whether  to  return;  but  another  shout  of 
"Ronald!  llonald  !"  startled  him;  and  flinging  his  hat  into 
the  air,  he  gave  a  wild  answering  cry,  and  ran  forwards  to  the 
rock,  where  his  companion  awaited  him. 

They  were  not  alone  together  then ;  a  third  individual  had 
joined 'them,  a  boy  probably  about  tw^o  years  younger  than 
llonald,  and  bearing  in  every  look  and  feature  the  stamp  of 
gentle  birth  and  careful  education.  He  was  tall  and  slight ; 
his  face  very  intelligent ;  his  voice  sweet  and  refined ;  and 
when  he  joined  in  the  fisherman's  coarse  laugh,  and  addressed 
him  in  terms  of  equality,  it  was  evident  there  could  be  no  real 
congeniality. 

"  Why,  Goff",  you  are  a  harder  master  than  Mr.  Lester !" 
he  exclaimed,  as  the  fisherman,  in  rather  an  uncivil  manner, 
lield  before  him  a  huge  old-fashioned  watch,  and  pointed  to 
the  hour.     *'  'Tis  but  five  minutes." 

*'  iMay  be  you'll  learn  the  value  of  five  minutes  to  your  cos^., 
one  of  these  "days,  Master  Clement !"  replied  Goff".  "  llonald 
has  been  here,  waiting  to  see  you,  the  last  half  hour." 

"  Ronald  is  not  like  me,"  rej^lied  Clement;  "he  is  his  own 
master.     See  if  I  won't  be  mine,  before  long,  Goff",  eh  ?" 

"Them  that  will  can  always  find  the  way,"  replied  the 
fisherman.  "Are  you  come  to  tell  us  you'll  be  here  to-morrow 
for  the  sail.  Master  Clement  ?" 

Clement  looked  up  hastily,  and  his  eye  encountered  Ro- 
nald's. The  boy  was  standing  at  a  little  distance  watching 
him  narrowly,  a  strauge  mixture  of  feelings  expressed  in  hi^ 


CLEVE   HALL.  11 

handsome  face.  A  bitter  pride,  perhaps,  was  written  there 
most  clearly ;  yet  a  glance  of  compassion,  blended  it  might 
have  been  with  self-reproach,  fell  upon  Clement. 

"  You'll  be  ready,  Ronald,  as  you  promised  ?"  said  Clement, 
appealing  to  him. 

"  I  made  no  promise,"  was  his  reply. 

"  But  you  are  going  ?" 

"Ay,  going;  wind  and  waves,  and  heaven  and  earth  for- 
bidding !"  exclaimed  Ronald,  impetuously.  Spurning  from 
him  a  stone  against  which  his  foot  had  been  resting,  he  added, 
"  My  doings  are  no  law  for  youi-s." 

Clement  regarded  him  wonderingly,  whilst  a  sarcastic  smile 
curled  the  fisherman's  lips. 

"Don't  mind  him,  Master  Clement,"  he  said;  "it's  his 
way.  Six  o'clock,  to-morrow  evening,  at  the  West  Point. 
We'll  have  a  short  run,  with  a  fair  wind,  as  it's  like  to  be,  and 
be  back  in  time  for  the  old  lady's  tea." 

"  What  do  you  say,  Ronald  ?  It's  to  be  done,  isn't  it  ?" 
inquired  Clement. 

"  Ask  Goff !"  and  the  look  of  pride  passed  away  from 
Ronald's  fiice,  and  seating  himself  on  a  stone,  he  rested  his 
arms  upon  his  knees.  At  that  moment  the  loud  barking  of  a 
dog  was  heard  in  the  distance. 

"  Ah  !  the  Captain  !"  exclaimed  Goff.  "  He's  as  good  as 
liis  word,  at  least.  Come,  Ronald,  my  lad,  there's  work  for 
you  now  I" 

Ronald  did  not  move,  even  when  Goff  touched  him  roughly 
with  his  foot.  Clement  stooped  down,  and  put  his  arm  round 
him  caressingly. 

"  Ronald,  it  was  your  notion;  why  won't  you  go  ?" 

"I  am  going;"  but  Ronald's  head  was  not  raised. 

"  Then  why  shouldn't  I  go?" 

Ronald  started  from  his  bending  posture,  as  a  large  New- 
foundland dog  rushed  upon  him,  and  tried  to  place  his  two 
fore-paws  upon  his  shoulders.  "  Down,  Rollo  !  down  !" — he 
patted  the  dog's  head,  and  caught  it  between  both  his  hands, 
looking  at  it  as  if  reading  a  human  countenance,  then  seizing 
Clement's  arm,  he  dragged  him  to  the  edge  of  the  ravine,  and 
pointing  to  a  broken,  tangled  path,  rushed  down  it.  Clement 
followed.  The  dog  waited  and  watched  them,  irresolute;  but 
the  next  moment  he  was  coursing  at  full  speed  along  the  road 
by  which  a  man,  dressed  in  a  shaggy  greatcoat,  and  a  low- 


12  CLEVE   HALL. 

crowned  jrlazed  hat,  Mith  a  licavy  stick  in  liis  luiial,  was  seen 
approaching. 

"  To-morrow,  at  "West  Point,  at  six,"  called  out  the  fisher- 
man, as  the  boys  disappeared  from  sight. 

"  To-morrow,  at  six,  yes  I"  was  heard  in  Clement's  clear, 
refined  tones. 

"  To-morrow  at  six — no  I"  added  another  voice,  deep,  rich, 
and  full ;  and  the  fisherman  hurst  into  an  angiy  laugh,  and 
shouted  after  tliem,  "  that  he  would  be  made  a  fool  by  iio  one." 

''  jNIy  hopeful  boy  you  arc  calling  after,  eh  !  Master  Goff?" 
was  the  observation  by  which  the  attention  of  the  fisherman 
was  drawn  to  the  person  who  had  now  joined  him. 

''  Hopeful,  indeed,  Captain.  Why,  he's  taken  to  turn  lately 
like  a  weathercock.  If  it  goes  on,  1  wish  you  joy  of  juiything 
vou'il  ever  do  with  him."  A  scowl  rested  on  the  stranger's 
face  which  was  not  needed  to  render  it  unprepossessing,  for  it 
was  rarely  that  a  countenance  could  be  seen  on  which  so  many 
evil  passions  were  to  be  traced.  There  was  a  strong  likeness 
to  Konald ;  it  might  have  been  told  at  once  that  they  were 
father  and  son ;  but  whilst  the  pride  of  the  boy's  fiice  was 
softened  by  thought,  and  his  reckless  bearing  was  checked  by 
some  eager,  though  it  might  be  transient  feelings  of  the  neces- 
sity of  self-command,  the  father's  countenance  showed  little 
but  a  dogged  resolution,  the  result  of  habitual  selfishness  and 
indulgence  in  habits  which  had  nearly  obliterated  every  sign 
of  higher  education  or  feeling. 

"  He  is  coming  with  us  to-night,"  he  remarked ;  not 
replying  directly  to  the  fisherman's  observation. 

"That's  as  he  will.  Captain;  as  you  know  quite  as  well 
as  I.  He  is  off  now  with  the  young  springald,  and  who's  to 
catch  him  ?" 

The  stranger  uttered  a  profane  ejaculation,  and  walked  to 
the  edge  of  the  ravine,  looked  down  it,  and  then  returned 
again.  ''  He'll  be  back ;  he's  not  a  fellow  to  miss  the  fun. 
How  go  matters  at  the  Point  ?" 

"  All  ready,  only  waiting  for  Captain  Vivian,"  said  Goff, 
with  something  of  a  contemptuous  laugh. 

"  And  Captain  Vivian's  son ;  the  boy  has  a  mind  to  drive 
me  frantic.      But  there  is  no  need  to  wait." 

"No  need  and  no  power,"  said  Goff.  "Time  and  tide 
wait  for  no  man  ;  so  by  your  leave,  Captain,  we'll  let  the  two 
youngsters  be  off." 


CLEVE    HALL.  13 

"You  ■wouldn't  have  taken  the  other  boy!"  exclaimed 
Captain  Vivian,  quickly. 

''Not  quite  such  a  fool  as  that;  no, — he's  a  mere  land 
sawney;  nothing's  to  be  made  of  him  —  as  dainty  as  a 
girl.  What  a  fine  fellow  will  be  spoilt  if  Ronald  takes  after 
him  !" 

The  frown  on  Captain  Vivian's  face  became  terrific;  and 
Gofi"  softened  his  words.  *'  No  fear  of  that  though,  Captain. 
See  Ronald  in  a  gale  of  wind !  that's  the  time  when  he's  a 
man.     Come,  are  you  ready  ?" 

Pie  received  no  answer.  A  crowd  of  angry  feelings  seemed 
working  in  Captain  Vivian's  mind,  and  throwing  his  stick 
backwards  and  forwards,  he  strode  on  silently;  Goff  accom- 
panying him,  and  occasionally  stealing  aside  to  the  edge  of 
the  ravine  to  discover  whether  any  glimpse  could  be  obtained 
of  Ronald. 


CHAPTER  III. 


EIGHT  o'clock!  Where  is  Clement?"  The  question  was 
asked,  in  a  querulous  tone  by  a  lady  seemingly  infirm, 
rather  from  indolence  and  illness  than  from  age,  as  ordering  the 
door  to  be  shut,  and  wrapping  a  shawl  around  her,  she  drew 
near  the  tea  table,  spread  in  a  small,  neat,  but  poorly-furnished 
drawing  room.  It  was  answered  in  a  girlish  voice,  but  the 
accent  was  scarcely  more  amiable. 

"Indeed,  grandmamma,  I  can't  say;  he  has  been  out  ever 
since  six."  The  speaker  was  a  young  girl  of  about  sixteen, 
tall,  graceful,  and  rather  foreign  looking;  from  the  darkness 
of  her  complexion,  and  the  dreamy,  yet  very  intellectual  ex- 
pression of  her  splendid  dark  eyes,  the  only  feature  in  the  face 
which  could  lay  claim  to  real  beauty.  She  was  stationed  by 
the  urn,  and  her  attention  was  given  more  to  the  teacups  than 
to  the  person  who  addressed  her. 

"  You  might  as  well  learn,  Ella,  to  be  civil  when  you  are 
spoken  to.     Why  can't  you  look  at  me?" 

"  I  -din  pouring  out  the  tea,  grandnianin^a.  0  dear,  what 
a  slop !  Louisa,  do  run  into  the  pantry  and  bring  me  a 
cloth." 


14  CLEVE   HALL.  - 

"  Louisa  not  gone  to  bed !  liow  is  tliat  ?  Louisa,  ^!f\\y 
don't  you  go  to  bod '(" 

''  IJccause  I  am  reading,  graudniamnia." 

"  But  you  ought  to  be  in  bed ;  it's  a  great  deal  ton 
late.  Where's  your  aunt?  why  doesn't  she  make  you  goto 
bed?" 

"  Aunt  Bertha  went  down  the  village,  and  isn't  come  in," 
replied  Louisa,  without  attempting  to  rise  from  the  low  stool 
on  wliich  she  had  placed  herself  to  be  out  of  the  reach  of 
observation,  and  able  at  her  leisure  to  study  a  volume  of  fairy 
tales. 

'' Very  wrong,  very  forgetful,"  was  mxirmured,  and  Mrs. 
Campbell  sank  back  again  in  her  chair  without  repeating  the 
order  for  Louisa  to  go. 

Ella  just  glanced  at  her  sister,  and,  forgetting  the  slop, 
handed  a  cup  of  tea  to  her  grandmamma ;  and  pouring  out 
one  for  herself,  and  helping  herself  to  some  toast,  gave  her 
whole  attention  to  a  book,  which  she  kept  by  her  half  hidden 
by  the  tea-tray.  The  room  was  very  silent  again  for  some 
minutes.  Then  Mrs.  Campbell  took  up  her  cup  and  com- 
plained that  the  tea  was  cold,  and  Ella  said  the  water  didn't 
boil,  and  the  bell  was  rung;  but  it  was  not  answered. 

"  Very  wrong  of  Bertha,  indeed,"  repeated  Mrs.  Campbell 
to  herself;  ''and  why  don't  they  answer  the  bell?  but  there's 
only  Betsey  and  the  girl.     Oh,  dear !" 

Ella  sighed,  oh  dear !  too,  but  she  took  no  other  notice. 

The  door  opened.  Mrs.  Campbell  began  in  a  fretful  tone : 
*' It  is  too  bad,  the  water  doesn't  boil  in  the  least;"  but  she 
stopped  on  finding  that  she  was  not  addressing  a  servant,  but 
a  young  lady.  "  Bertha,"  and  she  leaned  forward,  and  spoke 
with  something  approaching  to  energy,  "  why  don't  you  tell 
us  when  you  are  going  out  ?  We  have  been  waiting  this 
half-hour,  and  the  tea  is  quite  cold,  and  no  one  answers  the 
bell.  I  can't  think  Avhat  possesses  you  all.  W^here  have  you 
been  ?" 

"  I  was  called  out  to  sec  Hannah  Dobbs,  ma'am,  she  is 
worse :  and  then  I  had  to  go  up  to  the  rectory,  and  other 
things  besides."  The  last  words  were  uttered  in  an  under 
tone,  but  they  were  in  no  way  hasty  or  confused.  "  Louisa, 
you  ought  to  bo  in  bed ;"  and  Louisa  in  an  instant  jumped 
up  from  her  scat,  closed  her  book,  said  quickly,  "  Good  night, 
Grandmamma;  good  night;  Ella;  good  nighty  Aunt  Bertha/' 
and  was  iroue. 


CLEVE    HALL.  15 

Bertha  walked  up  to  tlie  tea-table:  ^'The  water  is  not 
cold,  Ella.  You  must  Lave  poured  out  Graudmamma's  tea 
before  she  was  ready  for  it.  Just  put  away  your  book,  and 
attend  to  what  you  are  doing."  Ella's  book  was  taken  from 
her  and  placed  on  a  side  table.  No  remonstrance  was  made, 
but  Ella  leaned  back  in  her  chaii*,  and  allowed  her  aunt  to 
fetch  Mrs.  Campbell's  cup,  pour  away  the  cold  tea,  and 
replenish  it  with  something  which,  if  it  was  not  strong,  at 
least  had  the  merit  of  warmth. 

"  Clement  is  not  come  in,  is  he  ?"  said  Bertha,  in  a  low 
voice,  to  Ella,  as  she  bent  over  the  tea-table. 

"  No,  I  have  not  heard  him." 

Bertha's  face  became  very  grave,  but  it  was  a  gravity 
which  suited  her,  for  it  softened  and  rendered  her  features 
expressive.  It  was  that  which  they  wanted  to  give  them  the 
beauty  to  which  they  ought  to  have  laid  claim  from  regularity. 
Bertha  Campbell  was  a  striking-looking  person,  very  tall,  and 
slight,  and  refined  in  figure  and  manner;  not  exactly  graceful 
— she  was  too  stiff  in  her  movements  for  that, — and  not 
exactly  interesting — she  was  too  rigid  and  self-controlled — too 
much  like  an  automaton  for  interest ;  but  the  stamp  of  a  lady 
was  upon  her  every  action.  As  she  moved  about  the  room 
now,  putting  a  chair  in  its  proper  place,  brightening  the  lamp, 
handing  her  mother  the  milk  and  sugar,  and  placing  a  foot- 
stool for  her,  an  indescribable  spirit  of  order  and  repose  seemed 
to  follow  her.  The  room  assumed  quite  a  different  aspect 
under  her  auspices,  and  yet  what  she  did  was  almost  too 
trifling  to  be  noticed. 

Mrs.  Campbell  spoke  again  more  gently  and  cheerfully. 
''Did  you  see  Mr.  Lester  at  the  Rectory,  Bertha?" 

"No,  ma'am.  Bachel  was  expecting  him;  she  left  him  at 
the  farm.  I  gave  my  message  to  her.  Can  I  do  anything 
more  for  you,  before  I  take  off  my  bonnet  ?" 

*'No,  child,  nothing;  but  make  haste  down;  the  tea  won't 
be  fit  to  drink  if  you  don't." 

Bertha  glanced  again  round  the  room,  told  Ella  she  was 
sitting  in  a  very  awkward  attitude,  and  disappeared ;  and  she 
was  no  sooner  gone  than  Ella,  having  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea 
for  her  aunt,  stole  (piietly  to  the  table  on  which  her  book  had 
been  placed  and  returned  to  her  studies. 

Bertha  came  down  again,  took  the  tea  which  I'^lla  had  pre- 
pared, without  making  any  remark  upon  it,  liel|ied  herself  to 
'.onic  very  cold  toast,  and  coniplctod  her  repast  with  a  piece 


16  CLKVE    HALL. 

of  drv  broad;  and  thon,  placiiii:;  the  empty  cups  and  plates 
upon  the  tray,  raiiv^  the  boll. 

The  suininoiis  was  answered  by  a  very  young  jjirl. 

"  Jane,  that  weak  arm  of  yours  won't  do  to  lift  this  heavy 
tray ;  you  had  better  let  me  carry  it  for  you." 
'*'  (jh.  Aunt  Bortha !"  escaped  from  Ella's  lips. 

"Why  not,  Ella?  what  harm  can  it  do  me  i"'  and  Bertha 
lifted  the  tray  and  canned  it  out  of  the  room,  whilst  the  little 
servant  girl  wiped  away  the  crumbs  from  the  cloth,  and  placed 
a  few  books  on  the  table. 

Bertha  did  not  immediately  return ;  and  at  the  sound  of  a 
heavy  opening  door,  Mrs.  Campbell,  who  had  seemed  inclined 
to  sleep,  roused  herself  and  inquired  whether  that  was 
Clement  come  in. 

''I  don't  think  so,  Grrandmamma;  I  fancy  it  must  be 
Aunt  Bertha  gone  out." 

"Gone  out  again,  it  can't  be;  go  and  see."  Ella  obeyed 
reluctantly. 

*'  It  was  Aunt  Bertha,  Grandmamma,"  and  there  was  a 
tone  of  triumph  in  Ella's  voice.  "  She  was  standing  under 
the  verandah;  she  is  there  now."' 

"  Toll  her  to  come  in  instantly ;  she  will  catch  her  death 
of  cold."  The  message  was  given  in  audible,  authoritative 
accents,  such  accents  as  might  well  have  roused  a  storm  of 
angry  feelings  in  Bertha's  breast ;  but  she  came  back  into  the 
room  with  Ella,  with  her  quiet,  gliding  step,  and  merely  said,  "  I 
went  out  to  see  what  kind  of  night  it  was  likely  to  be,  ma'am. 
Shall  I  read  to  you  ?"  She  took  up  a  book,  and,  seating  her- 
self by  her  mother's  arm-chair,  began  to  read  aloud.  Ella 
took  no  notice  of  this,  but  resting  both  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  riveted  her  eyes  upon  the  page  before  her. 

Bertha's  voice  was  rather  monotonous;  her  reading  had 
the  same  absence  of  expi-ession  as  her  face ;  perhaps  she  was 
not  giving  her  full  attention  to  the  book,  for  she  paused  some- 
times in  wrong  places,  as  if  listening,  and  looked  up, — quietly 
and  slowly  though — for  she  was  never  hurried — at  the  loast 
sound.  "  There  is  Clement,"  she  said,  at  last.  No  one  else 
seemed  to  have  heard  anything,  but  that  was  not  strange ;  a 
very  loud  clock  in  the  hall  had  just  struck  ten,  and  the  sound 
was  likely  to  drown  all  others. 

"  It  is  very  wrong  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Campbell,  hastily. 

"  Yes,  very  wrong,"  repeated  Bertha,  thoughtfully. 


CLEVE    HALL.  17 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  moonlio;lit  evening ;  I  dare  say  lie  has 
been  wandering  on  the  shore/'  said  Ella,  not  raising  her  eyes 
from  her  book. 

Bertha  went  to  meet  him.  They  were  heard  talking 
together  in  the  little  entrance  hall,  but  the  words  were  in- 
distinct. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Clement  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Campbell, 
as  they  entered  the  room.  The  boy's  eye  sparkled  with  a 
flash  of  irritation,  but  he  answered  gayly, — 

"  Been !  Grandmamma,  oh  !  to  a  hundred  places — along 
the  clifF,  down  on  the  shore,  watching  the  stars  ;  it's  a  wonder- 
ful night.     Ella,  I  wish  you  had  been  with  me." 

"  Ella  knows  better  than  to  wish  anything  of  the  kind," 
said  Mrs.  Campbell.  "  It  is  a  great  deal  too  late  for  you.  Whom 
had  you  with  you  ?" 

"  Part  of  the  time  I  was  alone,"  was  Clement's  evasive 
reply,  and  Mrs.  Campbell  seemed  satisfied;  but  Ella  looked 
up  at  her  brother  and  laughed. 

Bertha  was  very  cold  and  stiff.  She  asked  Clement  if  he 
was  hungry,  and  when  he  said,  "yes,  ravenous,"  told  him  he 
must  wait  till  after  prayers,  and  then  he  might  have  some  cold 
meat,  and  at  the  same  moment  she  rang  the  bell. 

Bertha  read  prayers, — reverently  and  simply ;  but  the  tone 
might  have  suited  a  sermon ;  and  Ella  fidgeted,  and  Clement 
was  once  heard  to  yawn. 

"  Don't  let  Clement  be  late,  Bertha,"  said  Mrs.  Campbell, 
as  she  took  a  night  candle  in  her  hand,  and  going  up  to  her 
daughter  gave  her  a  cold  kiss. 

"  No,  ma'am,  he  will  have  his  supper  directly." 

''  And  don't  be  late  yourself.  Bertha.  I  hear  you  moving 
about  in  your  room,  and  it  disturbs  me." 

"  No,  ma'am  !"  Bertha  opened  the  door  for  her  mother. 

"  Good  night.  Grandmamma,"  said  Ella;  and  Clement  drew 
near  also,  though  his  step  was  a  little  doubtful. 

"  Good  night,  loves.  Clement,  you  stamp  dreadfully  over 
my  head  at  night." 

"Do  I,  Grandmamma?  I  can't  help  it;  it  is  my  hea^-^' 
boots." 

"  You  may  wear  slippers,"  said  Bertha,  shortly ;  but  Mrs. 
Campbell  did  not  appear  to  need  the  apology.  She  kissed 
him  affection ntely,  and  went  up  stairs,  Ella  following  her. 
liortha  and  Clement  stood  litigering  over  the  fire.  Clement 
raked  up  the  ashes,  and  tried  to  make  a  blaze,  and  Bertha 


i.8  CLEVE    HALL. 

remarlvOtl  that  it  was  no  poDil ;  lie  must  make  liastc  ^n(l  cat 
liis  supper,  ami  <;o  to  bed. 

"  1  wish  supper  would  come,"  said  Clement,  peltislily. 
"  What  is  that  woman,  Betsey,  doing  with  herself  ?" 

"  iShc  has  more  to  attend  to  than  she  ought  to  have,"  waa 
the  reply.  "  She  can't  be  expected  to  have  supper  ready  at 
all  hours  of  the  night." 

"If  she  is  so  bus}^,  why  doesn't  she  have  more  help?" 
asked  Clement. 

"Because  we  can't  afford  it,  Clement."  The  boy  kicked 
away  a  stool  which  was  in  his  way,  and  started  up  from  the 
chair  into  which  he  had  flung  himself. 

"  The  answer  for  everything,  Aunt  Bertha;  are  we  never 
to  be  able  to  afford  it  ?" 

"Time  will  show  for  ns,"  replied  Bertha;  ''for  you,  Cle- 
ment, it  is  in  your  own  power." 

"  If  I  were  rich,  you  would  all  be  rich  too,"  he  exclaimed. 
"But,  Aunt  Bertha,  who  can  soften  stone  walls?     Not  I." 

"  It  is  no  question  of  softening  stone  walls,  Clement;  that 
is  neither  your  business  nor  mine.  The  work  is  in  your  own 
power." 

"  Yes,  plod,  plod,  night  and  day;  work  one's  brain  till  it 
hasn't  an  idea  left  in  it,  and  then  get  a  crust  of  bread  to  live 
upon  ;  and  that  is  the  life  of  a  gentleman  !" 

"  The  life  of  a  good  many  gentlemen,"  replied  Bertha. 
''But  here  is  your  supper,  Clement;  make  baste  and  eat  it, 
for  we  musn't  really  be  late." 

Clement  sat  down  to  the  table.  Some  slices  of  cold  mut- 
ton were  put  in  a  plate  for  him,  with  a  piece  of  bread.  He 
asked  for  some  pickle. 

"You  can't  have  any  to-night,"  said  Bertha;  "it  is 
locked  up." 

"  And  no  salad  ?  nothing?" 

"  It  is  a  very  good  supper  if  you  arc  hungry ;  and  if  you 
are  not,  you  don't  want  anything,"  answered  Bertha. 

"  Who  keeps  the  keys  ?  Grandmamma  ?"  and  before 
Bertha  could  stop  him  he  was  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  knock- 
ing loudly  at  Mrs.  Campbell's  door.  He  returned  holding  up 
the  keys  triumphantly. 

"  Now,  Aunt  Bertha  !"  but  Bertha  took  no  notice.  "  Which 
cupboard  is  it,  Aunt  Bertha  ?"     No  answer. 

He  only  laughed,  and  ran  away  to  the  kitchen.  Betsey,  the 
cook,  followed  him  as  he  came  back,  and  piit  down  on  the"  table 


CLEVE    HALL.  19 

a  jav  of  piekles  and  the  remains  of  a  cold  tart.  ''  So,  Aunt 
Bertha,  I  have  not  been  foraging  for  nothing ;  come,  you  will 
have  some  with  me."  ]^ut  he  failed  to  extract  a  smile  from 
Bertha,  who  stood  looking  on  whilst  he  ate  his  supper, 
with  an  appetite,  which,  as  he  himself  had  described  it,  was 
ravenous. 

Bertha  broke  the  silence.  "  Clement,  what  time  did 
Ronald  leave  you  ?" 

"Oh!  about  half-past  nine,  more  or  less;  I  had  no 
watch." 

"  And  you  walked  on  the  shore  all  that  time  ?" 

"  Yes,  there  and  on  the  cliffs.  He  was  in  one  of  his 
moods ;  I  couldn't  leave  him." 

"  He  ought  not  to  have  been  with  you,"  said  Beriha. 

"  He  said  that,  and  told  me  to  go ;  but  we  had  made  the 
engagement  to  meet.     And  where  was  the  harm  ?" 

*'  Where  is  at  any  time  the  harm  of  disobedience,  Cle- 
ment ?" 

"Now,  Aunt  Bertha,  I  don't  understand  you,"  and  Clement 
hastily  finished  his  tumbler  of  beer,  and  rose  and  stood  by  the 
fire.     "  Who  tells  me  not  to  be  with  Bonald  ?" 

"  I  tell  you,  and  that  ought  to  be  sufficient."  Her  tone 
was  very  authoritative,  and  the  angry  flush  rose  in  Clement's 
cheek,  and  he  bit  his  lip. 

"  You  know,  Clement,  that  there  is  disobedience  to  the 
spirit  of  a  law  as  well  as  to  the  letter.  What  matters  it  that 
yoii  have  never  been  absolutely  commanded  by  my  mother  not 
to  be  with  Ronald  ?  You  are  as  well  aware  as  I  am  that  both 
she  and  Mr.  Lester  disapprove  of  it." 

"  Y\'^ithout  a  reason  I"  exclaimed  Clement.  "  I  will  never 
listen  to  any  one  who  doesn't  give  me  a  reason." 

"  Then  you  will  be  a  slave  to  yourself,  Clement,  and  a 
miserable  man." 

"  As  you  will,"  he  replied,  carelessly.  "  I  will  run  my 
chance  of  misery,  but  I  never  will  leave  a  noble-hearted  fel- 
low, like  Ronald,  merely  because  there  happens  to  be  a  preju- 
dice against  him.  And  you.  Aunt  Bertha,  to  try  to  persuade 
mo  not  !  you,  who  are  always  looking  after  him,  and  turning 
and  twisting  him  at  your  will !" 

"Not  at  my  will,  Clement,"  replied  Beriha.  "He  would 
not  be  what  he  is  if  he  were  turned  at  my  will,"  she  added  in 
ua  under-tonc. 


20  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  III'  miij;1it  not  be  bettor  for  boincic  different,"  exclaimed 
Cli'iiioiit,  "  or  if  he  were,  I  .shoukbi't  like  bim  as  well." 

"  No,  and  tlierc  is  tlic  danger,  Clement;  but  we  won't  arguo 
tbe  point :  Mr.  Lester  wishes  you  not  to  be  with  him  j  my 
mother  wishes  it  also.     You  have  no  right  to  require  more." 

"  But  I  must  and  I  do  require  more,"  exclaimed  Clement, 
impatiently,  yet  withcmt  any  real  ill-humor;  ''and  I  ask  of 
you,  Aunt  Bertha,  whether  there  isn't  a  prejudice  against 
Ronald,  which  would  prevent  Grandmamma  and  Mr.  Lester 
from  liking  him  if  he  were  an  angel.  And  I  will  ask  too," 
he  continued,  interrupting  Bertha  as  she  was  about  to  reply, 
"  whether  the  prejudice  is  not  fostered  by  my  grardfather,  and 
whether  it  is  not  because  of  him  that  every  pleasure  I  have  in 
life  is  thwarted." 

"  Clement,  that  is  speaking  very  disrespectfully.  I  can't 
answer  such  questions.  Your  grandfather  has  strong  reasorus, 
fearful  reasons,  for  dreading  an  intimacy  with  Ronald." 

"  With  a  cousin  !  not  very  near,  perhaps,  but  still  my  rela- 
tion, and  the  only  fellow  in  the  neighborhood  who  suits  me ! 
Am  I  then  to  live  the  life  of  a  hermit.  Aunt  Bertha?" 

"  You  are  required  to  lead  a  studious,  steady  life,  to  prepare 
yourself  for  the  University,  if  you  ever  wish  to  have  a  place 
in  your  grandfather's  favor." 

"  Then  I  will  go  without  the  place;  I  will  give  it  up.  The 
favor  of  a  rich  old  general !  there  will  be  many  candidates 
for  it." 

"  And  you  will  break  my  mother's  heart,  grieve  Mr.  Lester, 
disappoint  all  our  hopes,  merely  because  you  won't  bring  your- 
self to  relinquish  a  companionship  which,  after  all,  cannot  be 
congenial." 

"  I  will  stand  by  Konald  at  all  risks.  Aunt  Bertha;  I  will 
never  sacrifice  my  friendship  to  the  will  of  a " 

"  Take  care,  Clement,"  and  Bertha  held  up  her  finger  warn- 
ingly;   ''you  are  speaking  of  your  grandfather." 

"  Yet  he  has  never  shown  me  kindness,"  exclaimed  Clement ; 
"  he  never  asks  me  to  his  house, — he  scarcely  pays  me  the 
common  civilities  of  a  stranger.  And,  Aunt  Bertha,  let  him 
be  my  grandfather  a  himdred  times  over,  yet  he  is  my  father's 
enemy." 

"  Your  father,  Clement,  was  his  own  enemy." 

"  And  therefore  every  one  turns  against  him  !" 

"  Yes,  every  one,  even  his  only  son,"  replied  Bertha.  Her 
tone  was  so  sad  that  Clement  was  stiirtlcd. 


CLEVE   HALL.  21 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Aunt  Bertlia,"  be  said. 

"  And  tlicrefore  you  will  not  act  upon  faitli,"  answered 
Bertha.  "  Oh,  Clement !  it  is  a  fatal  principle  to  go  upon ;  it 
will  be  your  ruin.  I  bare  told  you  before,  and  I  repeat  it : 
disobey  and  thwart  your  grandfather,  and  untold  misery  will 
be  the  consequence." 

"  What  misery  ?  What  consequence  ?  Why  will  you  always 
speak  so  mysteriously,  Aunt  Bertha  ?" 

"Because  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  speak  in  any  other  way," 
paid  Bertha.  "  But,  Clement,  all  this  is  but  idle  talking.  If 
I  coiild  convince  you  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt,  that  your 
intimacy  with  Ronald  would  lead  you  into  mischief,  it  would 
not  in  the  most  remote  degree  add  to  the  duty  of  obedience  to 
the  known  will  of  all  the  persons  whom  you  are  most  bound  to 
obey." 

Clement  was  silent.  Bertha  took  up  a  candlestick,  and 
gave  it  to  him.  He  did  not  wish  her  good  night,  but  stood 
thinking. 

"Aunt  Bertha,"  and  he  suddenly  raised  his  eyes  from  the 
floor,  "  you  knew  Ronald  many  years  ago." 

"Yes,  many,  Clement;  before  you  can  remember." 

"And  you  were  always  kind  to  him?" 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so.     I  wish  to  be  kind  to  eveiy  one." 

"  But  you  were  specially  kind  to  him,  and  you  are  so  now , 
and  you  have  influence  over  him." 

"  I  don't  know  as  to  the  influence.  If  I  have,  it  is  not 
from  any  power  of  my  own." 

"You  were  his  mother's  friend,"  said  Clement;  "he  told 
me  that  to-night." 

"  Yes,"  was  Bertha's  cold  reply ;  but  she  sat  down  for  an 
instant,  and  her  hand  trembled  as  she  laid  her  candlestick  on 
the  table.  Clement  did  not  see  or  comprehend  the  signs  of 
inward  feeling ;  he  went  on  : 

"  Ronald  says  you  were  very  fond  of  her." 

"  Yes,  I  was.  Good  night,  Clement ;  remember  if  you 
sit  up  late  you  will  disturb  Grandmamma."  She  took  his 
hand, — it  was  as  impassive  as  her  own, — and  she  let  it  fall 
again  quietly.  Clement  moved  towards  the  door,  but  paused 
U)  say  impatiently,  in  answer  to  the  injunction,  again  repeated, 
to  go  to  bed  at  once, — 

"  I  shall  go  presently.  I  have  an  exercise  to  prepare  for 
Mr.  Lester." 

Bertha  waited  till  she  had  heard  him  enter  his  room  and 


22  CLEVE    HALL. 

lock  tbc  door,  and  then  she  made  a  tour  of  inspection  of  tlie 
rooms,  saw  that  every  shutter  was  fastened,  and  every  bolt 
drawn,  and  retired  to  rest  herself. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


■  j'llS.  CAMPBELL'S  cottapje  closely  adjoined  the  Fvectory; 
only  a  steep,  reedy  bank,  and  a  little  rivulet  divided 
them,  and  a  rough  bridp:e  over  the  stream  formed  an  easy 
mode  of  communication.  The  llectory  stood  high,  on  a  smooth, 
sloping  lawn,  a  little  way  up  the  ascent  of  the  range  of  the 
Eiicombe  hills,  which  entirely  sheltei'cd  it  from  the  north. 
'J'iie  libraiy  windows  fronting  the  south-east  commanded  a  view 
over  a  small  bay,  shut  in  by  rugged  cliffs  of  red  sandstone, 
rising  at  the  western  extremity  into  a  bold  headland.  IJeyond, 
towards  the  north-west,  the  landscape  was  more  bounded ;  the 
rough  ground  at  the  top  of  the  ravine,  in  which  the  village 
was  hidden,  and  the  thick  plantation  of  what  appeared  to  be  a 
gentleman's  park,  closing  in  the  horizon. 

Rachel  Lester  was  sitting  in  the  library  with  her  father ; 
he  was  writing,  she  was  busy  with  a  slate  and  a  Latin  exer- 
cise. Rachel  was  receiving  rather  a  learned  education  ;  an 
only  child,  with  no  mother,  and  a  very  classically-inclined 
father,  that  was  natural.  jMr.  Lester  looked  very  old  to  be 
the  father  of  such  a  child  as  Rachel.  He  was  nearly  sixty  in 
appearance,  though  not  quite  so  much  in  reality.  His  hair 
was  gray,  and  his  countenance  worn.  It  was  a  very  intellec- 
tual, studious  face,  softened  by  the  expression  of  extreme 
benevolence ;  but  there  was  great  firmness  in  the  lines  of  his 
mouth ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  could,  when  he  chose, 
be  severe.  His  attention  was  entirely  given  now  to  his  occu- 
pation. He  was  engaged  with  a  letter,  interlined  and  cor- 
rected, often  causing  him  to  pause  and  consider,  and  sometimes 
to  throw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  pass  his  hand  across 
his  eyes,  as  if  in  painful  recollection. 

llis  feelings  may  be  traced  in  the  words  which  flowed  from 
his  pen : — 

"  I  need  not  say  that  you  are  continually  in  my  thoughts, 
:uid  always  with  the  longing  to  meet  your  wishes.     I  desire 


CLEVE   HALL.  28 

heartily  to  fiud  an  openins;,  and  can  only  entreat  you  to  trust 
us  if  we  seem  to  delay,  lleniember  that  if  we  seize  the  wrong 
moment,  everything  will  fail.  Mildred  lives  upon  the  nopo 
of  success,  but  even  she  does  not  yet  perceive  the  way  to  it. 
My  dear  Vivian,  you  must  be  patient;  you  must  pray  to  be  so; 
remembering  the  offence,  and  bearing  the  punishment.  In 
the  mean  time,  your  cbildren  are  well,  and  doing  well — in  the 
way,  at  least,  to  do  so — though  there  are  many  faults  to  be 
corrected.  Their  education  is  not  in  all  ways  what  I  like ;  but 
there  is  no  direct  evil  in  it,  and  the  defect  cannot  be  remedied. 
Here,  again,  we  must  be  patient.  Clement  may  be  ;dl  that  we 
could  wish  to  see  him.  He  is  generous-hearted  and  refined  in 
taste,  but  easily  led  into  things  which  at  first  sight  one  would 
be  apt  to  fancy  foreign  to  his  nature.  I  think  this  arises  from 
vanity.  He  loves  admiration,  and  does  not  much  care  from 
whom  it  comes.  You  will  not  like  to  hear  this ;  but  you 
wished  to  know  the  truth,  and  the  worst,  and  I  give  it  you. 
He  has  no  vicious  habits,  but  if  he  were  born  to  luxury  I 
should  feel  he  might  become  a  sentimentalist.  His  fixvorite 
virtues  are  of  the  heroic  cast ;  so  are  his  favorite  heroes. 
He  has  great  notions  of  self-sacrifice,  but  veiy  little  idea  of 
self-restraint. 

''  There  is  a  singular  likeness  between  him  and  Ella,  in 
character  as  well  as  in  countenance.  They  are  twins  both  in 
mind  and  body,  except  that  Clement  will  never  be  what  Ella 
is  in  point  of  talent.  She  really  has  wonderful  powers,  but 
with  the  singular  inconsistency  of  genius,  she  is  as  variable  as 
the  winds,  and  as  indolent  as — I  can  form  no  comparison  for 
her  indolence — there  is  nothing  in  nature  like  it.  I  should 
very  much  like  to  remove  Clement  from  her  influence.  It  is 
all-powerful  with  him,  partly,  I  suppose,  from  the  twin-feeling 
which  is  always  so  strong,  but  chiefly  from  his  exceeding  ad- 
miration of  her  powers  of  mind.  He  will  not  see  her  defects, 
and  it  is  very  painful  to  be  obliged  to  point  them  out. 

''  The  little  ones  have  great  promise  of  good,  if  they  are 
properly  managed.  Louisa  is  quick,  determined,  and  wilful ; 
but  capable  of  ripening  into  an  extremely  sensible,  useful 
woman.  Fanny  is  too  pretty  for  her  own  advantage,  or  at 
least  she  has  heard  too  much  of  her  beauty  for  simplicity;  but 
she  is  exceedingly  affectionate,  and  very  true,  and  the  truth 
gives  me  great  hope  of  her. 

*'  If  the  home  were  but  different !  You  will  understand  all 
I  mc;;n  by  that — you,  who  have  known  licrtha  Campbell  so 


•_'i  CLEVE   HALL. 

well,  and  have  reaped  the  benefit  of  her  virtues,  and  felt  the 
roiiso.HU'iRt's  of  her  defects.  But  we  laust  take  her,  my  dear 
Vivian,  as  she  is;  and  be  grateful  that  at  least  tlie  children 
will  never  liavc  a  low,  or  insincere  example  set  before  them. 
l<ho  is  not  to  be  altered ;  and  really  I,  who  know  her  in  her 
most  pleasing  form,  often  think  that  tlierc  is  scarcely  anything 
in  licr  I  should  wish  to  alter.  ]Jut  I  can  see  all  that  you  com- 
plain of,  and,  what  is  more,  all  the  consequences.  The  evil,  I 
suspect,  lies  very  far  back.  When  I  am  inclined  to  be  severe, 
I  wish  that  I  could  open  Mrs.  Campbell's  eyes  to  the  lasting 
evils  of  that  system  of  perpetual  check  which  has  absolutely 
paraly/od  Bertha's  powers.  To  see  what  she  has  done  would 
be  a  sullieient  punishment. 

"  You  would  like  me  to  tell  you  that  your  children's  home 
at  the  Lodge  is  very  cheerful  and  good  for  them,  and  that 
their  prospects  at  the  Park  are  brightening.  Now  this,  you 
see,  I  cannot  do  quite ;  but  I  have  given  you  something  to 
comfort  you,  only,  as  I  said  before,  patience  must  be  your 
motto. 

"  Mildred  writes  to  you  so  often,  that  I  need  not  say  any- 
thing about  her.  She  is  looking  better  than  usual.  I  think 
that  the  neighborhood  of  the  children  has  done  much  for  her, 
and  you  know  what  she  is  in  natural  cheerfulness  and  wonder- 
ful submission.  But  I  am  afraid  it  may  be  hope  deferred,  for 
as  yet  the  General  has  allowed  no  advances.  I  do  not  mean 
that  he  entirely  neglects  the  children;  he  notices  them  if  they 
meet,  and  the  other  day  he  sent  Clement  a  fishing-rod,  which 
the  boy,  stupidly  enough,  was  on  the  point  of  returning,  think- 
ing it  rather  an  insult  than  a  kindness,  because  some  one — I 
guess  who — had  put  it  into  his  head,  that  unless  bis  grand- 
father would  fully  forgive  and  receive  both  you  and  them,  it 
was  lowering  to  accept  any  favor  from  bim.  No  one  but  John 
Vivian  would  have  suggested  the  idea,  knowing  what  deadly 
enmity  it  might  cause.  If  it  were  not  for  the  watch  we  iiuiy 
keep  over  him,  it  would  be  one  of  the  greatest  trials  of  my 
faith,  that  such  a  fellow  as  3'our  cousin  should  be  here  just  at 
this  moment.  The  thorn  he  is  in  our  path  no  one  can  tell : 
and  there  is  liis  boy — a  fallen  angel,  if  one  may  say  so  with- 
<mt  profaneness — coming  in  contact  with  Clement  continually, 
and  exciting  in  him,  what  he  does  in  every  one,  an  interest 
which  at  last  becomes  fascination.  All  actual  authority  over 
Clement  must  lie  with  Mrs.  Campbell,  who  is  jealous  of  my 
interference;  so  I  cannot  entirely  forbid  any  intercourse  with 


CLEVE    HALL.  25 

Ronald,  aud  I  am  not  sure  that  I  sliould  do  so  if  I  could. 
The  boys  must  meet ;  they  are  near  neighbors  and  cousins, 
and  too  strict  discipline  might  lead  the  way  to  deceit,  when 
the  temptation  to  be  together  occasionally  is  so  great.  One  of 
the  most  unfortunate  points  in  the  acquaintance  is,  that  it 
serves  to  keep  up  the  General's  suspicion.  Your  cousin  Cap- 
tain Vivian,  as  he  is  called  now,  owing,  I  suppose,  to  his  con- 
nexion with  a  trading  vessel  commonly  said  to  be  used  for 
smuggling  purposes,  is  becoming  daily  more  low  in  his  tastes, 
and  finds  congenial  society  in  the  place — poachers,  smugglers, 
&c.  My  heart  sickens  when  I  think  of  his  influence  for  evil ; 
I  trace  it  continually.  The  people  have  a  kind  of  traditional 
respect  for  him  :  he  is  a  Vivian,  and  therefore  they  never  can 
look  upon  him  quite  as  a  mere  mortal.  They  see  what  he  is, 
but  they  regard  his  offences  very  much  as  we  used  to  regard 
the  crimes  of  the  heathen  gods,  and,  in  consequence,  are  not 
ashamed  to  follow  him. 

"  I  feel  I  am  giving  you  a  great  deal  of  pain  in  writing  all 
this,  raking  up  in  a  way  the  ashes  of  the  past.  But,  my 
dear  Vivian,  there  must  be  truth  between  us.  Your  cousin's 
name  should  be  buried  from  this  moment,  if  it  could  promote 
your  real  welfare ;  but  I  should  only  deceive  you  and  in  the 
end  increase  the  bitterness  of  your  trial,  if  I  allowed  you  to 
think  that  he  is  not  now,  as  he  has  been  ever,  your  evil  genius. 
I  still  hold  the  opinions  I  mentioned  in  my  last  letter  as  to 
his  past  deeds,  and  am  anxiously  seeking  for  an  opportunity 
to  unravel  the  mystery.  Your  sister-in-law  and  I  discuss 
plans  continually,  but  hitherto  we  have  failed  to  arrive  at  a 
satisfactory  conclusion.  If  we  could  soften  the  General,  we 
might  reach  the  truth ;  but  how  is  that  to  be  done  ? 

''  One  thing  you  must  remember  for  your  comfort  as 
regards  the  children,  that  there  arc  counter-influences  for  good. 
John  Vivian,  himself,  is  to  Clement  merely  an  object  of  won- 
dering disgust.  The  boy's  natural  refinement  keeps  him  out 
of  the  reach  of  the  chief  temptations  which  such  a  man  could 
off"er.  And  llonald  is  open  to  influences  which  may — God 
grant  it  prove  so — turn  the  balance  in  favor  of  all  we  could 
most  desire.  He  has  his  mother's  face  and  in  a  measure  her 
disposition,  so  at  least  I  am  told  by  your  sister-in-law,  who 
sees  him  often  and  talks  to  him  a  good  deal.  I  was  very  nnudi 
surprised  to  find  when  jMrs.  Campbell  came  here,  that  Bertha 
and  lloland  were  old  acquaintances.  ]}ertha  is  so  reserved 
that  I  can  get  nothing  from  her  as  to  how  they  first  knew  each 


20  CLEVE    HALL. 

other,  except  that  one  day  she  told  me  his  mother  lind  been  a 
friend  of  liers.  Certainly  since  she  has  been  at  Encombe 
there  has  been  a  marked  change  in  him.  It  is  strange,  is  it 
not  ?  that  she  should  have  power  over  a  wild,  untamed  spirit 
like  his,  and  yet  do  so  little  in  her  own  family.  But  it  is  her 
own  family — that  I  suppose  is  the  secret;  and  when  she  has 
to  work  in  it,  she  cannot  be  free. 

"Your  father,  I  sometimes  fancy,  keeps  a  little  aloof  from 
me,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  He  must  know  the  wish  that 
is  nearest  to  my  heart.  His  walking  powers  are  not  quite 
what  they  were,  but  he  rides  a  great  deal  and  looks  uncom- 
monly well.  3Iildred,  as  I  said,  hopes,  and  lives  upon  hope, 
that  is  her  nature;  and  yet  with  such  constant  suffering  it 
really  is  marvellous.  My  little  llachel  is  with  her  often,  but 
not  (juite  as  frequently  as  she  used  to  be,  for  she  is  working 
diligently  under  Miss  Campbell's  superintendence.  She  began 
doing  lessons  with  Ella,  but  soon  gave  that  up.  As  to  keep- 
ing pace  with  Ella  I  really  don't  know  who  could  do  so.  I 
sometimes  indulge  a  dream  of  finding  a  Avay  to  the  General's 
heart  by  Ella's  means.  He  could  not  help  appreciating  her 
wonderful  talents;  and  then  he  might  become  proud  of  her. 
jMildred  would  know  how  to  bring  her  out,  but  the  children 
are  so  very  little  with  her  !  She  does  not  dare  show  herself 
too  eager  for  their  society  ;  and  if  ever  they  do  go  to  the  Hall 
they  are  kept  out  of  the  General's  way  as  much  as  possible. 
You  may  imagine  how  this  chafes  Clement's  proud  temper, 
and  he  comes  back  to  me,  and  raves  of  insult  and  subjection, 
and  talks  about  Eonald  and  a  seafaring  life  which  they  might 
lead  together;  but  it  will  all  come  to  nothing.  He  has  not 
enough  of  the  spirit  of  endurance  in  him  to  make  a  sailor;  and 
he  is  too  old  for  the  navy,  and  would  not  choose  to  enter  the 
merchant  service.  Ilonald  might  do  for  it  very  well ;  in  fact, 
I  am  at  this  moment  negotiating  something  of  the  kind  for 
him  at  his  own  request.  You  will  understand  that  I  have  a 
double  motive  for  his  good  and  Clement's ;  the  separation  is 
so  very  much  to  be  desired. 

''  One  word  about  myself,  and  then  good-b'ye.  You  ask 
me  how  I  am,  and  what  1  do,  and  what  my  hopes  and  pleasures 
are.  I  am  very  well,  1  never  was  bettei-,  and  I  work  content- 
edly in  my  parish,  and  my  earthly  hopes  and  pleasures  are 
centred  in  Rachel. 

'^  That  answer  will  not  sjitisfy  you  I  know.  It  tells  too 
Utile  of   my  inner  self.     My  dear  Vivian,  that   must  be  a 


CLEVE    HALL.  2Y 

sealed  book.  If  I  were  to  attempt  to  describe  the  strag-o-les  of 
a  heart  which  has  yet  to  learn  submission  to  the  Divine  Will, 
I  should  make  myself  a  woman  in  weakness.  Suffice  it  that 
I  have  one  treasure  left  to  render  my  home  bright.  Yet  you 
must  not  fancy  I  am  miserable  or  even  unhappy ;  only  sobered. 
Mildred  and  I  sometimes  venture  to  compare  notes  upon  these 
subjects;  but  I  don't  think  it  is  wise  in  us,  except  that  to  sec 
her  is  the  deepest  lesson  one  could  receive  in  humility.  An 
old  woman  said  to  me  the  other  day :  '  Miss  Mildred  seems  to 
be  always  a  smiling  and  a  pi'aying — and  sure  that  was  what 
the  saints  used  to  do.'  Certainly  the  poor  have  especial  reason 
to  think  her  a  saint ;  for,  in  spite  of  her  infirmities,  she 
manages,  principally  through  Mrs.  Robinson,  to  make  herself 
at  home  with  all  their  affairs,  and  is  considered  quite  their 
best  domestic  adviser." 

The  letter  was  concluded,  sealed,  and  directed  to  '^  E.  B. 
Vivian,  Esq.,  Kingston,  Jamaica." 

Then  Rachel  spoke  :  "  Dear  Papa,  may  I  take  your  letter 
to  the  post  ?    I  am  going  out." 

Mr.  Lester  did  not  at  first  appear  to  hear  her.  He  was 
gazing  at  the  words  he  had  just  written,  probably  following 
them  in  his  mind  on  their  distant  mission.  He  answered, 
however,  after  a  short  pause,  *' No,  dear  child,  thank  you;" 
but  he  spoke  in  an  absent  tone.  Presently,  he  said,  ''  How 
old  are  you,  Rachel  ?" 

*'  Thirteen,  Papa !  I  shall  be  fourteen,  my  next  birth- 
day." 

''A  very  great  age  for  such  a  very  little  woman,"  said  IMr. 
Lester,  smiling ;  and,  as  Rachel  seated  herself  on  his  knee, 
and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  he  added :  "  When  do  you 
ever  mean  to  be  anything  but  a  baby  ?" 

''Never  to  you,  Papa;  but  Nurse  Robinson  told  me  last 
evening  that  I  really  was  grown." 

"She  sees  what  she  wishes,"  replied  Mr.  Lester;  "she 
has  set  her  heart  upon  your  being  a  fine  young  lady." 

Rachel  clapped  her  hands  together,  and  her  merry  laugh 
made  iMr.  Lester's  grave  face  also  relax  into  something  more 
than  a  smile. 

"Well,  Rachel,  shouldn't  vou  like  to  be  a  fine  youiis: 
lady?" 

"Should  3'ou  like  me  to  be  one,  Papa?"  said  Rachel 
archly. 

"Perhaps  not;  you  wouldn't  be  so  convcuiciit  to  nurse. 


28  CLEVE    HALL. 

You  arc  suoli  a  ddll  now,  that  you  may  very  well  pass  foi 
U'li.  ]}ut,  llac-liel,"  and  his  voice  became  very  serious,  "  I 
should  like  tu  think  you  were  old  enough  to  share  some  of  my 
cares." 

The  deep  look  of  thouirht  came  over  Rachcrs  face,  as  her 
eye  rested  for  a  moment  on  a  picture  over  the  mantel-piece, 
the  likeness  of  her  mother,  and  of  two  sisters  and  a  brother, 
all  older  than  herself,  and  all  now  lying  side  by  side  in  the 
churchyard  of  Encombe.  She  had  never  known  the  comfort 
of  their  love,  but  they  were  the  dearest  treasures  of  her  young 
heart;  and,  whenever  tempted  to  thoughtlessness  by  her 
natural  gayety  of  heart,  a  glance  at  the  picture  was  sufficient 
to  remind  her  that  she  was  to  live  to  be  her  father's  con- 
solation. 

]\Ir.  Lester's  eye  followed  hers.  "You  may  help  me  so 
much,  Kachcl,  if  you  will,"  he  continued. 

"Papa,"  and  she  leaned  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  her 
voice  was  low  and  tremulous,  "  will  you  pray  to  God  to  teach 
me  how  ?" 

He  kissed  her  fondly  and  repeatedly.  "1  do  pray  foryoii, 
my  child,  daily  and  hourly,  and  God  hears  my  prayers.  He 
has  made  you  my  chief  solace  hitherto,  and  he  will  make  you 
so  still  more ;  I  do  not  doubt  it." 

"  Are  you  unhajipy,  Papa,  now  ?" 

"  I  can  scarcely  say  unhappy,  Racliel,  but  very  anxious ; 
not  for  myself,"  he  added,  hastily,  seeing  her  look  alarmed. 

"  For  Clement  ?"  asked  Rachel,  doubtfully. 

Mr,  Lester  half-smiled,  whilst  he  hesitated  to  answer. 
"  Yes,  for  Clement,  partly;  what  made  you  think  of  him?" 

*'  Because  you  are  often  grave,  Papa,  after  he  has  been 
here;  and  because  he  seems  to  make  every  one  anxious. 
Miss  Campbell  is  always  troubling  about  him  for  one  reason 
or  another." 

"  Miss  Campbell  never  talks  to  you  about  him,  docs  she?" 
inquired  Mr.  Lester,  quickly. 

"  Not  exactly,  but  she  lets  out  little  things  ;  and  Ella  talks 
a  great  deal,  only  she  thinks  Clement  perfect." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  think  him  dreadfully  naughty,"  exclaimed  Rachel. 
'•  I  like  Ronald  A'ivian,  though  he  is  so  rough,  twenty  times 
lis  well  as  I  do  Clement." 

"  You  don't  see  much  of  either  of  them  to  be  able  to 
judge,"  observed  3Ir.  Lester. 


CLEVE    HALL.  29 

"No;  ouly  we  meet  tliem  sometimes,  wlien  wo  are  out 
walking,  and  Miss  Campbell  always  speaks  to  Rouald,  and  he 
attends  to  ter,  but  Clement  never  does." 

"  That  is  one  of  his  great  defects,"  said  Mr.  Lester;  "  jom 
and  Ella  should  try  to  cure  him  of  it." 

"  Ella  upholds  him,"  replied  Rachel. 

"  Then  you  must  try  and  persuade  her  out  of  it." 

"  Ella  is  not  to  be  persuaded,"  replied  Rachel ;  "  and  sho 
talks  of  Clement  as  if  he  were  such  a  great  person.  I  tell  hei 
sometimes  that  I  think  he  must  be  a  prince  in  disguise." 

"  She  thinks  he  will  inherit  his  grandfather's  fortune,  and 
live  at  the  Hall,"  said  Mr.  Lester. 

"■  And  he  will,  won't  he,  Papa  ?" 

"We  don't  know,  my  dear;  there  is  no  good  in  dwcllino- 
upon  such  things.  Clement  must  learn  to  do  his  duty  with- 
out thinking  of  the  consequences." 

"  And  Ella  must  learn  to  teach  him,"  said  Rachel, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  great  duty  for  her ;  and  Rachel,  my 
darling,  you  have  had  more  advantages  than  she  has,  and  1 
think  you  may  help  to  give  her  strength.  This  was  what  ) 
wanted  especially  to  say  to  you.  You  have  little  to  do  with 
Clement ;  but  you  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  Ella,  and  you 
must  turn  your  opportunities  to  the  best  account." 

"But,  Papa,  she  is  so  clever,  I  can't  keep  up  with  her; 
and  she  is  older." 

"  Very  true ;  but,  Rachel,  it  is  not  talent  which  really  in- 
fluences the  world,  but  high,  steady  principle.  You  are  not 
very  clever,  but  you  may  be  very  good,  and  if  you  are,  you 
may  help  to  make  Ella  good  too ;  and  if  she  is  good  she  will 
lead  Clement  right ;  and  if  Clement  is  led  right " 

"What,  Papa?" 

Mr.  Lester  paused :  "  It  would  make  me  very  happy, 
Rachel."  He  seemed  tempted  to  say  more  to  her,  but  after 
a  short  consideration  he  merely  added,  "  You  don't  wish  for 
any  other  motive,  do  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  Papa  !  only — Clement  is  no  relation." 

"  He  is  the  son  of  one  whom  I  once  loved,  and  whom  I  still 
love  as  if  he  were  my  younger  brother,'^  said  Mr.  Lcstx^r; 
"  and  his  father  is  away,  and  there  is  no  one  else  to  guide  him. 
Is  not  that  a  suiliciont  reason  to  be  anxious  for  him  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Rachel,  as  her  father  stood  up  and  botrau 
to  put  aside  his  writing  materials.     The  "yes"  was  doubtful. 


80  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  Arc  you  not  satisfied,  my  cliild  T' 

"  Nut  (|mtc,  Papa,"  was  Uachel's  lionest  answer.  ''  Tlicr^ 
is  always  :i  mystery  about  Cloment." 

"  And  you  must  be  contented,  my  darling,  to  bear  with 
mystery.  It  is  a  very  ncccssaiy  lesson  to  learn ;  but  so  far  I 
will  tell  you.  General  Vivian  has  had  cause  to  be  displeased 
with  his  son,  and  therefore  he  looks  with  suspicion  upon 
Clement ;  and  everything  which  Clement  does  that  is  careless 
and  wrong  increases  his  grandfather's  doubts  of  his  character. 
Now,  you  can  see  why  I,  as  his  fixthcr's  friend,  am  especially 
anxious  as  to  his  conduct ;  and  so  I  hope  you  will  see  also  how 
important  it  is  for  every  one  who  has  influence  of  any  kind 
over  either  p]lla  or  Clement,  to  try  and  lead  them  in  the  right 
way.  I  can't  answer  any  more  questions,  Rachel ;  and  remem- 
ber you  must  never  talk  upon  the  subject  to  any  one  but  me." 

Rachel  was  a  little  awed  by  her  father's  manner.  Her 
countenance  showed  it.  Yet  the  feeling  vanished  in  a  moment 
as.  he  stooped  to  kiss  her,  and  she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  see 
Aunt  Mildred  to-day;  you  don't  mind?" 

"  No,  my  cJiild  ;  how  should  1?  I  shall  be  going  to  the 
Hall  myself,  prubably,  and  if  you  are  there  we  will  walk  home 
together." 

"  Then  I  may  stay  a  long  time,  if  she  asks  me?" 

"  Yes ;  but  who  is  to  go  with  you  ?" 

"  Miss  Campbell  and  Ella  to  the  lodge  gate,  and  if  I  don't 
stay  they  will  wait  for  me,  but  they  are  not  going  in."  Rachel 
could  have  wondered  and  asked  the  reason  why,  but  she  checked 
herself. 

"  One  more  kiss,  Papa."  And  she  ran  gayly  out  of  the 
room,  and  her  joyous  voice  was  heard  as  she  went  singing  up 
the  stairs  to  prepare  for  her  walk. 


CHAPTER  V. 


CLEVE  HALL  was  a  long,  low,  irregular,  red-brick  house, 
part  of  which  dated  as  far  back  as  the  time  of  Henry 
VIL  The  history  of  the  A^ivians  was  written  in  its  gables, 
and  clustering  chimneys,  and  turrets,  and  oriel  windows  of  all' 
shapes  and  sizes, — for  by  far  the  greater  number  of  its  pes- 


CLEVE    HALL.  31 

sessors  had  thoiiglit  it  necessary  to  add  to  or  alter  it;  almost 
the  only  thing  which  had  descended  unchanged  being  the  huge 
griffin,  the  family  crest,  standing  erect  above  the  entrance 
porch. 

A  quiet,  solemn-looking  place  it  was,  resting  under  the 
guardianship  of  the  Eucombe  Hills,  and  shut  in  by  plantations 
on  every  side  except  towards  the  sea ;  a  place  to  which  childish 
memories  might  cling  with  vivid  recollections  of  long  summer 
days  spent  under  the  shade  of  the  old  oaks  whilst  listening  to 
the  soft  murmu^rs  of  the  sea,  or  of  winter  evenings  in  the  gi-eat 
library,  or  rainy  days  iu  the  billiard  room,  or  long  twilights 
passed  in  recounting  the  tales  belonging  to  the  grim,  old  family 
pictures.  Many  such  places  there  are  in  England — few  per- 
haps more  interesting  than  Cleve  Hall  in  its  stately,  sobering 
quietness. 

It  was  in  a  handsome  ihcugh  narrow  room  in  the  oldest  part 
of  the  house  that  Rachel  Lester  was  sitting  on  that  evenmg  as 
it  drew  towards  sunset.  She  had  drawn  a  stool  into  the  depth 
of  the  oriel  window,  and  was  endeavoring  to  read  by  the  fading 
light.  Twilight  is  not,  as  every  one  knows,  a  cheerful  hour, 
Qud  Miss  Vivian's  morning-room,  as  the  apartment  was  usually 
called,  was  low,  and  the  windows  were  small  and  deep.  Yet 
it  was  not  gloomy;  there  were  books,  pictures,  flowers,  cabinets 
of  shells,  a  piano,  and  a  table  with  a  work-basket  and  drawifig 
materials, — all  giving  notions  of  constant,  cheerful  employ- 
ment, and  of  the  comfort  and  elegancies  of  life ;  and  though 
the  shadows  were  deepening,  yet  the  rich  sunset  hues  were 
pouring  in  through  the  windows,  and  lighting  up  the  lower  end 
of  the  apartment  with  a  flood  of  crimson. 

The  sun  was  setting  over  the  sea,  which  could  be  seen 
through  an  opening  in  the  shrubbery,  with  the  jagged  edge 
of  the  clifi"  forming  its  boundary.  It  brought  indications  of  a 
ehange  of  weather ;  the  clouds  were  gathering  angrily  in  the 
west,  some  heaped  together  in  huge  masses  touched  at  their 
edges  by  streaks  of  gold,  others  rushing  across  the  sky  in  long, 
feathery  flakes,  becoming  brilliantly  red  when  they  came  within 
reach  of  the  departing  rays,  and  melting  away  in  hues  scarcely 
perceptible  as  they  stretched  themselves  far  into  the  grayish 
blue  vault  above  them. 

The  wind  moaned  ominously  amongst  the  Cleve  woods,  the 
leaves  moved  restlessly  to  and  fro,  and  flights  of  birds  were 
winging  their  way  rapidly  from  the  clifis,  whilst  even  from  that 
di.staijce  the  foam  of  the  white  breakers  might  be  seen  as  they 


32  CLEVE    HALL. 

tossed  tlii'ir  cliai'od  waters  upon  the  beach.     It  was  clear  thai 
a  storm  was  risiiiir,  and  that  rapidly. 

"  Oh  !  Aunt  Mildred,  can  ^-ou  see  that  boat  ?  how  it  goes 
up  and  down,  and  all  its  sails  up  !  How  beautiful  it  looks  I" 
llachel  had  put  down  her  book,  and  was  pointing  with  eno 
hand  to  the  window  whilst  the  other  rested  upon  the  arm  of  a 
couch  on  which  lay  a  lady  whoso  age  it  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  tell.  Seen  in  the  twilight  she  looked  still  young,  but 
her  complexion  was  worn  and  sallow,  probably  from  the  illness 
of  years.  Her  face  was  painfully  thin,  and  her  fingers  were 
veiy  long  and  slender;  yet  the  impression  she  gave  was  not 
that  of  suffering,  and  scai'cely  of  resignation,  at  least  when 
she  spoke.  Some  persons  are  said  to  have  tears  in  their 
voices.  Mildred  Vivian  certainly  had  a  smile  in  hers.  "  What 
boat,  darling?"  she  said,  in  answer  to  Rachel's  observation. 
"  Oh  !  I  see  it  now.  Please  move  a  very  little.  How  fast  it 
goes  !  the  wind  must  be  in  its  favor." 

"  Should  you  like  to  be  in  it,  Aunt  Mildred  ?" 

"Like  it?  Oh!  llachel,  yes;  should  I  not?  It  is  fifteen 
years  since  I  was  in  a  boat." 

"  Where  is  it  going,  I  wonder  ?"  said  Rachel.     "  Vv'here. 
would  you  go.  Aunt  Mildred,  if  you  were  in  it?" 

Mildred  paused.  Rachel  could  not  see  her  face  clearly,  for 
the' shadows  were  deepening  every  instant.  *'I  should  go  far 
away  from  England,  dear  child."  The  very  lightest  sound  of 
a  sigh  could  be  heard,  following  the  words. 

"  You  should  tiJie  me  with  you  wherever  you  went,  dear 
Aunt  :Mildred." 

"■  What,  away  from  Papa?" 

"Oh!  no,  no;  but  he  must  go  with  us.  We  could  not 
live  away  from  each  other,  could  we  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  that,  Rachel.  We  did  live  some  yeans  with- 
out knowing  each  other,"  replied  Mildred. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  always  wanted  something." 

*'  And  did  not  know  that  it  was  a  mock  aunt,"  observed 
Mildred  in  a  tone  of  amusement. 

''  I  don't  like  your  saying  mock,  dear  Aunt  Mildred," 
exclaimed  Rachel.  "  You  are  more  real  than  a  gi'ea*-  mar*' 
real  aunts,  I  am  sure." 

"  31  ore  real  in  love,  dear  child;  that  I  am  quite  suro  of." 

"  But  you  could  do  without  me,"  said  Rachel  thcight- 
fully. 


CLF.VE    HALL.  33 

'•'  I  stouldu't  like  to  do  without  you :  I  mustn't  say  I  could 
not." 

"  Aunt  Mildred,"  and  Racliel  spoke  anxiously,  ''  I  know  I 
couldn't  do  without  Papa." 

"Ah,  Rachel !  you  don't  know." 

"  But  must  I  try  ?  Am  I  TCiy  wicked  to  feci  that  I 
couldn't  ?" 

"Not  at  all  wicked;  only,  Rachel,  we  can  do  without 
whatever  God  may  please  to  take  from  us." 

"  But  we  should  die,"  said  Rachel. 

"  No,  dear  Rachel,  we  should  only  be  made  more  fit  to 
die." 

"And  He  has  taken  so  much  from  you!"  exclaimed 
Rachel,  flinging  her  arm  round  Mildred's  neck.  "  Was  it  all 
needed  to  make  you  fit  to  die  ?" 

"All,  Rachel!  every  pang,  every  sorrow;  there  was  not 
one  too  many.  And  He  has  left  such  mercies  !  Perhaps  some 
day  He  will  add  the  greatest  of  all — the  thankfulness  which 
one  ought  to  have." 

Rachel  stood  up  again,  nearer  to  the  window.  The  boat 
was  fast  becoming  indistinct  in  the  dull  light  and  the  far 
distance. 

"  Can  you  see  it  still  ?"  said  Mildred,  sitting  more  upright. 

"  Just.  How  the  wind  is  rising  !  I  shouldn't  like  to  be 
in  the  boat;  I  should  be  afraid." 

JMildred  did  not  reply,  and  Rachel,  too,  was  silent  for  some 
time.  The  last  gleams  of  the  sunset  were  melting  away,  and 
the  room  was  becoming  very  dark.  "  JMr.  Lester  will  be  here 
soon,"  said  Mildred;  "or  will  he  wait  till  the  moon  has 
risen  ?" 

It  was  strange  that  there  was  no  answer.  Rachel's  face 
was  pressed  against  the  window-pane.  She  seemed  straining 
her  eyes  to  obtain  the  least  glimpse  of  the  boat.  A  sudden 
gust  of  wind  howled  through  the  trees,  and,  as  it  died  away, 
Rachel  turned  from  the  window,  and  kneeling  by  Mildred's 
couch,  exclaimed,  as  she  burst  into  tears,  "  Perhaps  Clement 
will  be  out  to-night."  There  was  no  exclamation  of  surprise 
or  terror.  Mildred's  hand  was  placed  lovingly  on  the  child's 
head,  and  she  said  quietly,  "Are  you  sure  ?" 

"Not  sure;  I  think  so, — and — Aunt  Mildred,  it  maybe 
my  fault." 

"  Yours,  my  love,  how  ?" 


31  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  ]5('c;uiso  if  I  would  have  done  all  they  wished  mc  to  do 
he  woidd  not  have  p;ouc." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  by  they,  Rachel  ?  You  must  be  more 
clear."  Mildred  rather  raised  hereelf  on  her  couch,  and  a 
tone  of  anxiety  might  have  been  observed  in  the  first  words 
she  \tttered ;  but  even  at  the  close  of  the  sentence  it  was 
checked. 

*'  Ella  and  Clement  arc  they,"  replied  Rachel,  speaking 
hurriedly,  and  not  \crj  intelligibly.  "  I  went  there  before  I 
came  away,  and  Clement  was  talking  to  Ella." 

"  And  did  they  tell  you  what  they  were  talking  about?" 

'•'  I  heard  a  little  as  I  went  in,  and  then  they  were  obliged 
to  tell  me  more.  Clement  did  not  say,  though,  that  he  was 
going  in  the  boat,  only  that  he  had  an  engagement ;  but  I  am 
sure  he  was,  and  I  saw  him  with  Gofl'  in  the  villairo  afterwards^ 
and " 

"  Go  on,"  said  Mildred. 

Rachel  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  could  have  stopped  him, 
Aunt  Mildred,  if  I  had  chosen  it.  lie  said  if  I  would  go  to 
the  shore  with  him  and  Ella,  and  read  poetry — something  of 
Lord  ]5yron's  which  he  "wanted  Ella  to  hear, — then  he  would 
stay  at  home.  But  Papa  doesn't  like  me  to  read  the  book, 
and  so  I  said  no ;  and  now  perhaps  Clement  is  gone,  and  the 
storm  will  come  and  he  will  be  drowned.  Oh !  Aunt  Mildred, 
was  it  very  wrong?  "Was  it  very  wrong?"  she  repeated  in  a 
trembling  voice,  as  Mildred  delayed  answering. 

*'  No,  dear  Rachel ;  how  could  it  be  ?  but " 

"  Hark  !  there  is  some  one,"  interrupted  Rachel,  listening. 
''  Papa  will  be  come  for  me,  and  what  will  he  say  ?" 

''  Not  that  it  was  your  fault,  Rachel,  whatever  happens. 
But  we  must  trust." 

"  And  he  may  not  have  gone,"  said  Rachel,  in  a  calmer 
tone. 

''  No,  he  may  not. — That  must  be  Mr.  Lester's  voice." 

Rachel  ran  out  to  meet  him.  ]Mr.  Lester  entered  hurriedly. 
The  storm,  he  said,  was  rising  like  a  hurricane,  and  he  was 
anxious  to  be  at  home.  lie  shook  hands  with  Mildred,  and 
sat  down  by  her,  and  asked  after  General  Vivian;  but  his 
manner  was  reserved  and  abstracted.  Mildred  looked  at  him. 
as  if  she  would  read  it ;  but  she  was  puzzled. 

"Rachel,  you  had  better  go  for  your  bonnet,"  she  said; 
and  Rachel  drew  near  and  whispered,  "  Will  you  tell  Papa 
when  I  am  <rone  V 


CLEVE    HALL.  35 

"Yes,  deur  love;-  don't  come  back  till  I  send  for  you." 
Rachel  ran  away.  "Rachel  is  anxious  for  Clement,"  said 
Mildred,  as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed. 

"  She  need  not  be  to-night ;  he  is  safe  ;  Goff  did  not  take 
liim  :"  but  Mr.  Lester's  tone  was  less  calm  than  his  words. 

"  Thank  God  for  that,"  said  Mildred,  with  a  sigh  of  gra- 
titude.    "It  may  be  a  fearful  night." 

Mr.  Lester  looked  out  into  the  dim  twilight,  and  stood  as 
if  in  a  reverie.  Presently  he  said,  "  It  is  not  from  Clement's 
obedience  that  he  is  safe.  It  was  Ronald  who  interfered.  Mark 
Wood  told  me  he  thought  he  was  going,  and  I  believed  he  was, 
till  I  met  Ronald.  These  are  things  which  make  me  feel  that 
he  must  have  a  father's  hand  over  him  soon,  if  possible." 

"  Have  you  any  plan ;  anything  to  propose  ?"  inquired 
Mildred,  anxiously. 

"No;  but  I  have  been  writing.  My  letter  ought  to  have 
gone  to-day,  only  I  kept  it  open  till  I  had  seen  you.  Can  you 
give  me  any  hope  ?" 

"  Dear  Mr.  Lester !  how  can  you  ask  ?"  and  Mildred's 
lip  quivered.  "  Should  I  keep  it  from  you  a  moment  if  I 
had  ?" 

"  Yet  I  could  not  be  contented  without  asking,"  said  Mr. 
Lester.  "  He  will  think  my  letter  miserably  cold,  for  I  had 
no  comfort  to  give  him  but  words,  and  I  was  obliged  to  tell 
him  that  Clement  doesn't  satisfy  me." 

"  I  have  not  yet  sounded  the  matter,"  said  Mildred,  speak- 
ing in  a  tone  which  indicated  great  self-restraint.  "  Incau- 
tiousness  woidd  do  immense  mischief.  If  I  take  my  father 
at  the  wrong  moment,  he  may  forbid  the  subject  ever  being 
mentioned  again ;  and  I  feel  as  if  wo  should  be  more  certain 
of  our  end  if  we  could  gain  admittance  to  his  heart  first  in 
some  other  way.  I  have  thought  of  asking  him  to  let  Ella 
stay  with  me." 

"  It  is  a  strong  measure,"  said  Mr.  Lester.  "  I  should  be 
afraid  Ella  would  not  win  him.  He  will  see  her  faults,  and 
exaggerate  them." 

"  Perhaps  so."  Mildred  considered  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  as  if  speaking  to  herself,  "Is  it  not  unaccountable; 
so  good,  and  honorable,  and  kind-hearted  as  my  dear  father  is 
to  all  others, — so  clear-sighted  too,  especially  in  discovering 
injustice  or  prejudice?" 

"  Not  unaccountable ;    it  is  human  nature.     '  A  brothoi 
offended  is  harder  to  be  won  than  a  strong  city.'  " 


36  CLEVE    JIALL. 

"  And  the  Campbells  to  have  settled  in  the  neighborhood  I" 
said  jNIildred;  "  it  widens  the  breach  infinitely.  He  cannot 
endure  even  their  names." 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Lester;  "and  the  very  fact  of  seeing 
the  children  I  often  think  reminds  him  of  the  connexion." 

"  And  Edward  then  must  linger  in  a  distant  land,  away 
from  his  children,  working  without  hope." 

"  IJotter  that  than  to  return  and  be  rejected.  If  the  expe- 
riment were  to  fail,  we  should  have  nothing  else  to  fall  back 
upon.  AVc  must  wait  for  time  and  softening  influences. 
Through  God's  mercy  they  may  open  a  way.  Oh  !  if  any 
words  could  but  teach  those  children  what  may  depend  on 
their  present  conduct !"  The  explanation  came  from  the  very 
bottom  of  his  heart. 

"  Does  Miss  Campbell  complain  as  she  did  ?"  inquired 
Mildred. 

"  Yes,  and  for  the  most  part  justly." 

"But  she  is  not  merciful,"  said  Mildred. 

"That  is  not  to  be  expected  from  her  education.  She  ii 
antagonistic  to  them  always." 

"She  is  the  person  to  be  reached,"  continued  Mildred. 

"  She  is  reached  continually  in  a  way.  I  tell  her  her 
faults,  and  she  hears  them  all  patiently,  for  she  is  veiy  humble- 
minded  ;  but  I  see  no  results." 

"  Yet,  so  good  as  you  say  she  is,  her  character  must  tell." 

"  One  would  think  so ;  yet  one  infirmity  will  neutralize  a 
dozen  virtues.  How  one  trembles  to  hear  people  talk  so  lightly 
as  they  do  of  what  they  call  failings  !" 

Mildred  sighed.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"it  would  be  a  curious  and  fearful  histoiy  to  write,  —  the 
history  of  failings." 

"  It  will  be  written  one  day,"  said  Mr.  Lester,  solemnly; 
"  and  then  may  God  have  mercy  upon  us  !" 

A  pause  followed.  It  was  interrupted  by  a  heavy,  boom- 
ing sound,  heard  distinctly  amidst  the  roar  of  the  rising  storm. 
Mildred  started  up. 

"  A  ship  in  distress  !"  said  j\Ir.  Lester. 

IMildred  sank  back  and  covered  her  eyes.  jMr.  Lester  took 
up  his  hat. 

"  You  will  leave  Rachel  with  me,"  said  Mildred,  quietly. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  if  you  will  keep  her.  I  wish  she  could  al 
ways  be  as  safe.  God  bless  you."  He  pressed  her  hant* 
afFectionatcly. 


CLEVE    HALL.  37 

''And  you  "will  take  eveiy  one 'witli  you  who  you  think 
may  be  useful,"  said  Mildred;  "and  remember," — her  voice 
changed, — "  there  is  room  at  the  Hall  for  all  who  may  need 
shelter." 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  of  that  always.  Good  b'ye." 
Mildred's  face  was  perfectly  colorless ;  and  when  another 
boom  of  the  signal  gun  was  heard,  she  clasped  her  hands  to- 
gether, and  prayed  fervently  to  Him  at  "Whose  command  the 
winds  blow  and  lift  up  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  Whc  stilleth 
the  rao-e  thereof." 


CHAPTER   VI. 


PEOPLE  were  hurrying  to  the  shore,  making  their  way 
thither  by  the  nearest  paths,  and  guided  by  the  uncertain 
light  of  the  moon,  as  it  escaped  from  behind  the  racking  clouds 
which  were  rushing  over  the  heavens.  Mr.  Lester's  road  was 
narrow,  and  tangled  by  brushwood  and  briars.  It  led  directly 
through  the  woods  to  an  open  heath  terminated  by  the  cliffs. 
A  rough  road,  sometimes  traversed  by  carts,  crossed  the  heath, 
and  when  Mr.  Lester  emerged  from  the  copse,  he  found  the 
road  already  reached  by  stragglers  from  the  lone  cottages  be- 
tween Encombe  and  the  neighboring  town  of  Cleve.  Women 
and  children,  as  well  as  men,  were  amongst  them.  There  was 
a  strange,  fascinating  horror  in  the  thought  of  a  scene  of  dan- 
ger; and  some,  it  was  to  be  feared,  had  in  view  a  prospect  of 
personal  advantage,  to  be  gained  at  the  expense  of  the  unfor- 
tunate owners  of  the  distressed  vessel.  Mr.  Lester  mingled 
amongst  them  at  first  unperceived.  The  greater  number  were 
unknown  to  him,  as  not  belonging  to  his  own  parish,  and  the 
light  was  too  indistinct  to  allow  of  his  being  recognised  by 
them. 

"D'ye  see  her?"  asked  a  rough  farmer-looking  man,  of  a 
boy  who  had  been  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

"  See  her?  yes,  as  well  as  a  body  can  in  such  a  blinking 
light.  She's  ofi"  Dark  Head  Point,  on  the  rocks,  I'm  think- 
ing; and  sore  work  'twill  be  to  get  safe  in." 

"Many  folks  down  on  the  beach  ?"  inqiiired  the;  farmer. 

"  Ay,  a  crowd.  I  heard  the  Captain's  voice  amongst  the 
loudest." 


iS  CLEVE    1IAL1-. 

«  No  doubt  of  that,"  avus  the  reply.  "  Where's  there  over 
a  skirl  without  him  ?" 

"  Ay,  where  ?  lie  was  in  Cleve  this  afternoon,  bhisterinp; ; 
and  1  heard  it  said,  if  he  went  on  so  he'd  some  day  be  taken 
up  to  the  old  General.  That  is  a  sight  I'd  give  one  of  niy 
eyes  to  see.    But  he's  a  brave  fellow  after  all,  is  the  Captain." 

"  Brave,  is  he  ?     That's  as  folks  think.     Stay  ! " 

There  was  a  momentary  pause,  as  if  with  one  consent,  as  a 
shrill  cry  of  horror  was  brought  to  the  ear  in  a  sudden  lull  of 
the  tempest,  and  then,  with  an  instantaneous  impulse,  a  rush 
was  made  to  the  beach.  Mr.  Lester  was  amongst  the  first  to 
reach  it.  It  was  a  scene  of  darkness  and  confusion.  The 
moonbeams  touched  the  white  foam  of  the  curling  waves, 
whilst  they  rose  majestically  in  the  form  of  lowering  arches, 
and  broke  against  the  rocks  with  a  crashing  sound,  which 
seemed  as  if  it  must,  shake  the  firm  cliffs  to  their  centre.  Be- 
yond, the  spray  of  the  troubled  sea,  and  the  misty  clouds, 
caused  an  obscurity  every  moment  increasing,  as  the  last  faint 
light  of  sunset  faded  in  the  far  west.  The  crowds  on  the 
shore  were,  for  the  most  part,  crossing  and  recrossing  each 
other,  bringing  contradictory  reports,  arguing,  exclaiming, 
asseverating ;  but  in  one  spot  a  few  men  had  collected,  and 
were  discussing  in  loud  and  angry  tones  the  possibility  of  ren- 
dering assistance  to  the  distressed  vessel,  which  could  be  seen 
lying  directly  in  a  line  with  the  angle  of  the  steep  cliff  usually 
known  by  the  name  of  Dark  Head  Point. 

<'  Wo  must  throw  a  rope  from  the  cliff;  no  boat  will  live  in 
such  a  sea,"  said  a  coarse  voice,  which  would  have  been  known 
at  once  as  Captain  Vivian's,  even  without  the  profancness  that 
was  the  constant  accompaniment  of  his  words. 

"  Too  far,"  replied  Goff,  who  was  standing  by  his  side,  ex 
amining  the  scene  with  a  cool,  practised  eye,  and  not  eveu 
shrinking  when  a  second  cry  of  agonizing  distress  fell  upon 
the  ear.     ''  They  must  even  go,  if  'tis  Heaven's  will  they 
should." 

Captain  Vivian  moved  away  to  obtain  a  view  from  a  higher 
position,  and  at  the  same  moment  Mr.  Lester  drew  near. 

''  Too  far,  Gofi'?  and  will  no  one  try  the  boat?" 

Guff"  touched  his  hat,  but  his  manner  was  surly:  "  Your 
reverence  may  try.  It's  just  tossing  away  your  life;  but  you 
can  try." 

Mr.  Lester  considered.  It  was  madness,  utter  madness  for 
hiiu  at  least.     He  looked  round  for  another  opinion. 


CLEVE   HALL.  39 

"  A  quarter  of  an  hour  lience  tlie  tide  •will  have  turned/' 
said  a  fisherman  who  was  standing  near. 

"  And  a  quarter  of  an  hour  hence,"  exclaimed  GoflF,  "  they 
will  be  in " 

Mr.  Lester  stopped  him.  "  On  earth,  we  trust,  Goflf. 
Fifty  pounds  reward,"  he  shouted  loudly,  "to  any  one  who 
will  undertake  to  man  the  boat  and  be  otf  to  the  ship  !"  but 
his  voice  was  lost  in  the  roar  of  the  elements,  and  the  deep 
call  of  another  gun  of  distress.  Once  more  he  looked  round, 
hopeless  and  despairing.     Ronald  Vivian  was  close  to  him. 

"  Mr.  Lester,  one  word  with  you."  He  drew  him  aside : 
"  If  I  never  return,  say  to  Miss  Campbell  that  I  obeyed  her." 
He  caught  hold  of  the  boat  to  push  it  from  the  beach. 

Mr.  Lester  held  him  back.  "  llonald  !  this  is  actual  frenzy ! 
Your  father  and  GofF  are  the  only  persons  fit  to  go." 

"  Their  lives  are  precious,"  said  the  boy,  scornfully. 
"  Mine !" — he  seized  Mr.  Lester's  hand, — "  I  am  but  a 
stumbling-block  in  the  path.  Clement  will  be  safe  when  I  am 
gone."     Again  he  laid  hold  of  the  boat. 

At  that  moment  a  shout  arose  from  the  clifi",  "  They  are 
ofi" !  brave  fellows  !  they  are  off" !"  followed  by  a  deep  muttered 
prayer,  "  God  help  them  !"  and  like  one  body,  the  crowd  hur- 
ried to  the  spot  from  whence  they  could  best  watch  the  fate 
of  the  little  boat,  which  in  desperation  had  at  length  been 
committed  to  the  waves.  It  was  manned  by  three  experienced 
sailors,  and  bravely  and  resolutely  it  made  its  way,  followed  by 
a  breathless  silence,  as  one  moment  it  was  borne  upon  the  crest 
of  the  waves,  and  the  next  sank  into  the  deep  abyss  of  the 
angry  water  as  if  never  to  rise  again. 

Eonald  had  thrown  himself  upon  the  beach,  and  his  head 
was  buried  in  his  hands.  Mr.  Lester  spoke  to  him  gently : 
"  It  is  best,  Ronald,  as  it  is;  we  must  pray  for  them." 

Ronald  made  no  answer.  "  They  are  gone  !  they  are 
gone  !"  was  the  cry  heard  amidst  the  tempest,  and  he  started 
to  his  foot.  But  the  black  speck,  though  scarcely  discernible, 
was  still  to  be  seen  breasting  the  waves;  it  was  nearing  the 
ship.  Ronald  rashed  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  stood 
there  with  his  arms  folded  moodily  upon  his  breast.  Mr. 
Lester  followed  him  near,  yet  not  so  near  as  to  be  observed. 
The  moonlight  fell  upon  the  boy's  tall  firmly-built  figure  and 
noble  features.  The  expression  of  his  countenance  was  very 
painful ; — cold  and  proud,  and  when  he  heard  his  father's 
coarse  voice  shouting   from    the   cliffs,  recklessly  desperate. 


40  CLEVE    HALL 

"Ronald,"  said  Mr.  Lester,  approacliinj;'  to  hini,  ''you  would 
have  done  a  brave  deed,  and  God  accepts  the  will/' 

"Perhaps  so,"  was  the  answer;  "it  is  all  that  is  allowed 
to  me  ;"  and  he  moved  away. 

The  boat  was  not  to  be  seen;  whether  sunk,  or  passed 
beyond  the  power  of  sight,  none  could  say.  Tlie  moon  was 
hidden  by  a  thick  cloiid.  The  howling  of  the  wind,  the  rush 
of  the  waters,  silenced  every  other  sound ;  and  only  a  light 
raised  in  the  unfortunate  vessel  showed  that  human  life  was 
at  stake.  The  darkness  continued  for  several  minutes, — 
minutes  which  seemed  hours.  A  voice  from  the  croAvd  uttered 
a  loud,  shrill  call.  Some  said  it  was  answered,  but  it  might 
have  been  only  the  scream  of  the  stormy  blast.  "  Try  again  I" 
and  a  second  time  the  sharp  yell  seemed  to  rash  over  the  wide 
waste  of  waters,  seeking  for  a  response.  It  came  ;  yes,  it  was 
a  human  voice ;  a  cheer,  a  cry  of  exultation,  and  the  moon  for 
a  moment  appearing  showed  the  little  boat  crowded  with 
people,  tossed  upon  the  crest  of  a  mountainous  wave.  It  will 
be  swamped ;  it  must  be,  a  huge  mass  of  waters  is  about  to 
fall  upon  it ;  but  no,  it  has  risen  again,  the  awful  power  con- 
quered by  human  skill :  still  it  seems  to  make  no  progress, 
and  now  it  is  lost  to  sight ;  the  moon  has  sunk  back  again  into 
darkness.  Oh !  for  one  minute  of  peace  on  the  restless  ocean 
to  make  certain  the  door  of  escape. 

Konald  never  moved  nor  spoke.  His  eyes  were  riveted,  as 
by  a  basilisk  fascination,  on  the  spot  where  the  boat  was  likely 
to  appear.  And  it  did  appear,  nearing  the  shore,  guided  by  a 
hand  which  knew  well  how  to  break  the  force  of  every  wave, 
and  direct  it  amidst  the  rough  breakers.  It  was  all  but  in; 
all  but  within  safe  reach  of  the  shore.  A  cheer  rose,  loud, 
prolonged  ;  ending — surely  it  was  a  scream  of  terror!  A  wave 
had  passed  over  the  boat,  and  it  was  upset. 

Fearful,  awful,  was  the  scene  that  followed ;  struggles  f(jr 
life, — ineffectual  attempts  at  assistance, — the  engulphing  of 
last  hopes  in  the  foaming  ocean.  A  man's  head  was  reen  ris- 
ing above  the  waters,  his  hand  was  clasping  the  shaggy  weeds 
depending  from  a  rock ;  they  seemed  firm,  but  the  power  of 
death  was  in  the  grasp,  and  they  were  giving  way ;  in  another 
moment  he  would  be  gone.  Ronald  flung  aside  his  coat,  and 
cast  himself  into  the  sea;  few  saw  him,  none  cheered  him,  he 
was  doomed. 

They  had  sunk  both  together;  but  they  rose  fvgain,  the 
itranger  clinging  to  Ronald  as  he  struggled  with  the  water. 


CLEVE    HALL.  41 

A  iniglity  Avave  is  near,  it  must  cover  tlicm;  but  uo,  tlicy  have 
ri.seu  upon  its  crest;  and  now,  as  if  in  angry  disappointment, 
it  has  cast  them  from  it ; — they  are  safe  ! 

Mr.  Lester  was  at  some  distance.  Seven  men  had  with 
fjreat  difficulty  been  rescued,  and  he  was  giving  directions  for 
their  restoration.  Another  boat  was  being  manned  for  the 
purpose  of  going  back  again  to  the  ship ;  all  was  excitement 
and  confusion.  None  noticed  Ronald,  or  thought  of  him. 
He  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  man  whom  he  had  saved,  charing 
his  hands,  covering  him  with  the  coat  which  he  had  himself 
thrown  aside,  and  at  length  with  the  assistance  of  another  boy 
of  about  his  own  age,  though  much  inferior  to  himself  in 
power,  carried  him  to  the  shelter  of  a  boat-house. 

The  senses,  which  had  been  paralj^zed  as  much  by  horror 
as  by  the  actual  risk  that  had  been  run,  soon  returned,  and  by 
that  time  other  assistance  was  at  hand,  and  arrangements  were 
made  for  conveying  the  man  to  the  farm.  Ronald's  manner 
wa-s  indifferent  and  cold ;  he  answered  the  few  questions  put 
to  him  shortly  and  uncourteously;  and,  when  he  found  his 
charge  in  safe  hands,  took  advantage  of  the  suggestions  made 
that  he  should  look  after  himself,  to  walk  away  alone  towards 
his  own  home. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE  morning  after  the  storm  rose  bright,  clear,  and  compa- 
ratively calm,  though  deep  shadows  from  flying  clouds 
were  still  crossing  the  sea,  and  the  white  breakers  tossed  their 
diminished  heads  with  an  anger  not  yet  exhausted. 

Bertha  Campbell,  Ella,  and  Clement  were  together  on  a 
little  hillock  from  which  a  wide  view  of  the  sea  was  to  be  ob- 
tained. Dark  Head  Point  was  visible,  and  the  wreck  of  the 
nhattered  vessel,  stranded  amongst  the  rocks  upon  which  it 
had  drifted  during  the  night. 

"Three  lives  lost!"  said  Ella;  "how  terrible!"  and  she 
shuddered. 

"  And  seven  saved  !"  said  Bertha;  "that  one  ought  to  be 
thankful  for." 

"  ]']ight,"  observed  Clement  quickly ;  "  Ronald  saved  one." 


42  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  it,"  said  Bertha.  There  was  a  glistening 
ill  lier  eye,  but  it  was  a  strangely  imperturbable  manner. 

*'  ('lemeut  would  have  done  the  same  if  he  had  been  there," 
said  Ella. 

"  Yes,  he  might." 

''31ight!  oh' Aunt  Bertha!  it  is  certain." 
'  He  has  not  been  tried,  Ella." 

•'  And  therefore  you  doubt  me.  Aunt  Bertha,"  said  Clement 
haughtily.      "  Thank  you  for  your  opinion  of  me." 

"  1  only  judge  from  what  I  sec,  Clement.  If  you  arc  not 
equal  to  ordinary  duties,  I  don't  know  why  I  am  to  expect  you 
to  jierform  extraordinary  ones." 

''  Ivonald  docs  not  do  ordinary  duties  that  I  can  ever  see," 
continued  Clement. 

"  llonald  is  no  guide  for  you,"  replied  Bertha.  ''At  this 
moment  you  are  neglecting  your  work." 

"  Who  can  be  expected  to  work  such  a  morning  as  this  ?" 
exclaimed  Clement.  '<  Mr.  Lester  himself  is  gone  down  to 
the  village  and  to  the  shore." 

"It  is  his  business,  Clement;  it  is  not  yours." 

"  And  it  is  his  pleasure,"  exclaimed  Clement.  ''  He  is 
gone  to  the  farm  to  see  Ronald's  friend." 

Bertha  merely  repeated  her  observation,  that  Mr.  Lester 
attended  to  his  business,  and  therefore  Clement  ought  to  attend 
to  his,  and  then  suggested  to  Ella  that  it  was  "time  for  the 
children's  lessons  to  begin.  Ella  said,  ''Is  it?"  but  she  did 
not  move  from  the  grass  upon  which  she  was  seated,  leaning 
against  the  stone  that  supported  the  flag-staif,  and  gazing 
dreamily  upon  the  sea. 

"You  will  take  cold,  Ella,"  said  Bertha;  "it  is  a  great 
deal  too  damp  to  sit  upon  the  grass." 

"  Oh  no,  I  shan't,  Aunt  Bertha.     The  grass  is  quite  dry." 

Bertha  stooped  down  to  feel  it,  and  showed  the  drops  glis- 
tening on  her  hand. 

"  I  never  take  cold  by  sitting  on  the  grass,"  said  Ella;  "  I 
never  take  cold  at  all,  indeed,  except  when  I  sit  in  a  draught  " 

"  Every  one  takes  cold,  Ella,  who  sits  upon  wet  grass." 

"  Every  one  except  me,"  repeated  Ella.  "  Aunt  Bertha, 
if  you  are  going  in,  will  you  just  tell  the  little  ones  to  get  their 
lessons  ready.  I  suppose  one  must  move,"  she  added,  rising 
lazily. 

Bertha  went  into  the  house,  and  Ella  turned  to  her  brother 
tnd  said,  "  She  is  put  out." 


CLEVE    HALL,  43 

''Of  course  slie  is,"  replied  Clement;  '' &he  is  always  put 
out.  And  isn't  it  aggravating,  Ella,  the  way  in  whicli  she  never 
will  give  me  credit  for  a  single  thing  that  is  brave  or  noble  ? 
One  would  think  I  was  a  mere  automaton." 

"I  don't  mind  her,"  said  Ella;  "she  hasn't  a  spark  of 
poetry  or  enthusiasm  in  her  composition.  If  she  had  been  on 
the  shore,  I  venture  to  say  she  would  have  stayed  to  calculate 
exactly  the  claims  of  her  own  life,  before  she  would  have  ven- 
tured to  risk  it  for  another." 

<'  It  won't  do  for  me,  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  Clement, 
pursuing  the  bent  of  his  own  thoughts-  "  If  they  want  me 
to  listen  to  them,  they  mustn't  try  to  keep  me  in  leading-strings 
in  that  fashion.  Why  there  are  many  boys  who  have  been 
half  over  the  world  and  are  their  own  masters  at  my  age." 

"  It  will  come  to  an  end,"  said  Ella,  reseating  herself  on  a 
stone  ;  "  all  things  come  to  an  end,  if  one  waits  long  enough." 

"  Very  well  for  a  girl,"  he  exclaimed  impetuously;  "but 
what  is  to  be  done  with  the  years  that  go  by  whilst  one  is 
waiting?" 

"  Make  them  a  preparation  for  those  which  are  to  come, 
Clement,"  said  a  grave  voice. 

Clement  started,  for  it  was  Mr.  Lester's.  He  was  looking 
very  pale,  veiy  haggard, — a  year  might  have  passed  over  him 
since  the  last  evening.  His  manner  too  was  different  from  ita 
usual  quiet,  almost  stern  rigidity ;  its  restlessness  showed  how 
much  he  must  have  gone  through.  Ella  was  very  fond  of 
him,  and  all  her  better  feelings  were  called  forth  when  she  saw 
him  suffering.  She  begged  him  now  to  go  into  the  house,  and 
let  her  fetch  him  a  glass  of  wine.  She  was  sure  he  was  over- 
tired, and  if  he  didn't  take  care  he  would  be  ill.  But  he 
would  not  go  in ;  "  He  would  rather,"  he  said,  "  remain  with 
them  where  they  were ;  the  fresh  air  would  do  him  good ;"  and 
he  sat  down  by  Ella  at  the  foot  of  the  flag-staff. 

"  Those  tiresome  lessons  !"  murmured  Ella  to  her  brother. 

"  Oh  nonsense,  you  can't  go  now,"  was  his  reply,  in  an 
under  tone. 

"  A  few  minutes  can't  signify,"  added  Ella,  rather  speaking 
to  herself  than  ro  Clement.  "■  Dear  Mv.  Lester,  do  let  me  go 
in  and  bring  you  something  out  here."  She  spoke  now  with 
niiiniation  and  eagerness :  her  heart  was  in  her  words. 

"  Thank  you,  dear  child,  no.  One  can't  forget  last  uight, 
Ella." 

"No,"  replied  Ella,  awed  by  his  manner. 


44  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  And  Cloiuent  might  have  been  exposed  to  danger,  too," 
he  continued. 

"  Goff  woukl  never  take  me.  Sir,  if  there  was  danger,"  said 
Clement,  a  little  moodily. 

"  He  ought  not  to  take  you  at  all,  Clement."  Mr.  Lester's 
voice  trembled. 

''  You  arc  too  tired  to  talk.  Sir,"  said  Ella,  looking  at  hira 
anxiously.     ''Shall  we  leave  you?" 

"Yes;  and  yet," — he  placed  his  hand  on  her  head, — 
"  Ella,  one  thought  was  in  my  mind,  haunting  it  all  last  night, 
— that  Clement  might  have  been  where  others  then  were.  1 
wonder  whether  either  of  you  thought  of  it  too." 

"  1  believe  it  was  wrong  in  me  to  propose  going  out  on  the 
water,  Sir,"  said  Clement,  candidly;  ''but  when  1  had  made 
an  engagement,  I  didn't  like  to  break  it." 

"  An  after  engagement  cannot  cancel  a  former  one,"  said 
3Ir.  Lester.     "  Our  first  engagement  in  all  cases  is  to  God." 
"  He  was  never  absolutely  "told  not  to  go,"  said  Ella. 
_  Clement  refused  to  accept  the  excuse :   "  He  knew,"  he 
said,  "that  it  was  not  quite  right,  but  it  seemed  such  a  little 
thing,  he  couldn't  really  believe  it  signified  ;  certainly  he  should 
have  gone  but  for  some  blunder  of  Eonald's,  which  made  them 
all  late."     And  then  he  muttered  something  about  sea-faring 
life,  and  that  he  must  prepare  if  he  ever  intended  to  go  to  sea. 
Mr.  Lester  was  silent.     Clement  knew  that  he  "had  said 
what  was  very  painful ;  and,  anxious  to  turn  the  conversation, 
he  asked  whether  Ronald's  friend  was  recovered. 

"  Yes,  tolerably;  he  has  gone  to  Cleve  :  his  name  is  Bruce; 
the  vessel  was  an  Amei-ican." 

The  answers  were  given  shortly,  and  Clement  was  afraid  to 
pursue  the  subject. 

"  I  had  better  go  in  to  the  lessons  now,"  said  Ella.  She 
did  not  know  what  else  to  say  or  do,  and  the  claim  of  the  for- 
gotten duty  reasserted  itself. 

"I  am  going  home,"  said  Mr.  Lester;  "tell  your  aunt  I 
shall  not  see  her  probably  to-day ;  I  must  be  alone  as  much  as 
possible."  The  last  words  were  spoken  in  an  under  tone.  He 
stood  up  to  go.  "  Clement,  are  you  ready  for  me  ?" 
"  Yes,  Sir;  that  is,  I  shall  be.  I  will  follow  you." 
"  I  would  ratlier  you  should  go  with  me;"  and  Mr.  Lester 
paused,  and  his  eyes  wandered  over  the  sea. 

"  Here  is  Rachel !"  said  Ella,  as  she  turned  towards  the 
Parsonage  garden.    Mr.  Lester's  face  brightened  in  an  instant. 


CLEVE    HALL,  45 

"How  slie  runs!"  continued  Ella:  '-I  never  could  move 
so  fast." 

It  seemed  but  one  bound  and  Racbel  was  at  her  father's 
side.  "  Nurse  Robinson  is  waiting  for  you,  Papa.  She  says 
you  expected  her.  And,  Ella  dear,"  and  Rachel  pi-oduced  a 
folded  paper,  "  I  have  copied  the  lines,  and  thank  you  so 
much ;  they  are  beautiful." 

*'  May  I  see  them  ?"  said  Mr.  Lester,  taking  them  from 
her  hand. 

"  Longfellow's  Excelsior,"  said  Ella,  looking  over  his 
shoulder.  "  Rachel  and  Clement  and  I  mean  to  make  a 
Latin  translation  of  them." 

"  Papa,  you  admire  them,  don't  you  ?"  asked  Rachel, 
noticing  the  peculiar  expression  of  his  face. 

"  Of  course  I  do,  my  love;  who  could  help  it  ?" 

"  And  you  think  them  very  true  and  right  in  their 
meaning?" 

"  Yes,  entirely  so." 

"And  you  like  us  to  like  them  ?" 

Mr.  Lester  paused.  Ella  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  Her 
dark,  expressive  eye  seemed  in  a  moment  to  read  the  meaning 
of  his  silence,  and  as  the  color  rushed  to  her  cheeks,  she  said, 
''  Mr.  Lester  wishes  us  to  follow  them,  not  merely  to  like 
them."  She  did  not  wait  to  hear  his  answer,  but  walked 
slowly  into  the  house  without  wishing  any  one  good-b'ye. 

Bertha  was  in  the  little  room  which  opened  from  the 
drawing-room,  and  was  used  as  a  school-room.  It  had  no 
carpet,  and  its  chief  furniture  consisted  of  tables,  stools,  and 
book-cases.  There  was  only  one  piano  in  the  house,  and  that 
was  in  the  drawing-room.  Everything  in  the  apartment  was 
neat,  it  could  not  be  otherwise  when  Bertha  Campbell  super- 
intended, but  the  room  had  the  same  air  of  poverty  as  the 
rest  of  the  house ;  a  poverty  contrasting  remarkably  with  the 
appearance  of  the  persons  who  inhabited  it. 

Bertha  was  energetic  and  simple  in  all  she  did,  and  would 
have  dusted  a  room  as  willingly  as  she  would  have  studied  a 
foreign  language ;  but  no  one,  on  looking  at  her,  wcmld  have 
supposed  that  she  was  born  to  such  work ;  whilst  Ella  with 
her  indolent,  graceful  movements,  and  little  Fanny  with  her 
slight  figure  and  delicate  features,  seemed  only  fitted  for  the 
luxury  of  an  eastern  climate.  Louisa,  indeed,  was  difftn-ent, 
but  even  she  moved  and  spoke  with  an  air  of  command  which 


4G  CLEVE   HALL. 

wonlil  have  needed  a  dozen  servants  to  be  in  attendance  instead 
of  the  tidy  little  girl  who  did  duty  as  both  housemaid  and  par- 
loniiaid. 

"When  Ella  returned  from  the  garden,  she  found  Bci-tha 
engaged  in  hearing  Louisa's  lessons,  and  superintending' 
Fanny's  copy.  She  did  not  appear  to  perceive  that  her  aunt 
had  been  taking  her  duties  for  her.  It  was  so  common  a  cir- 
cumstance, as  not,  in  Ella's  eyes,  to  need  "  thank  you,"  and 
Bertha  on  her  part  made  no  leraark  upon  Ella's  absence ;  but 
Louisa  was  reproved  rather  sharply  for  a  blunder  she  had  just 
made,  and  Fanny  was  told  that  if  she  did  not  hold  her  pen 
better  she  would  be  sent  up  stairs.  Ella  threw  herself  into  a 
low  seat,  and  leaning  back  exclaimed  that  it  was  tremendously 
hot,  and  she  was  dying  with  sleep:  she  wished  it  was  tho 
fashion  in  England  to  take  siestas. 

"You  can  have  one,  if  you  like  it/'  said  Bertha,  a  little 
satirically. 

"  Very  well  for  you  to  say.  Aunt  Bertha,  who  can  manage 
your  time  as  you  like.  Oh  dear !  these  tiresome  lessons ! 
Fanny,  are  you  ready  with  your  French  translation  V 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Fanny. 

''  Then  why  aren't  you  ?" 

"I  hadn't  time  to  do  it  last  evening." 

"  You  know  you  would  insist  upon  going  such  a  distance  in 
your  walk,  Ella,"  observed  Bertha.  ""The  children  came  in  a 
great  deal  too  late  to  finish  what  they  had  to  do." 

"I  can't  hear  it,  if  it  is  not  ready,"  said  Ella.  "What  can 
you  do,  Fanny  ?" 

"I  can  say  my  dates,  and  vocabulary,  and  dialocrue,  I 
think."  ^ 

"Well,  come  then." 

"  Had  you  not  better  go  up  stairs,  and  put  your  shawl  away, 
Ella?"  said  Bertha,  "and  then  you  will  come  down  quite  fresh 
again." 

"  No,  thank  you.  It  is  a  great  deal  too  hot  to  move,"  and 
Ella  tossed  her  shawl  into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room. 
Bertha  put  down  the  lesson  book,  took  up  the  shawl,  and  sent 
Louisa  up  stairs  with  it. 

"  Now,  Fanny,"  said  Ella. 

Fanny  began  and  repeated  a  tolerably  correct  lesson,  or,  at 
least,^  such  as  seemed  to  be  so;  for  it  was  one  of  Ella's 
theories  that  it  was  useless  to  make  children  say  things  exactly 
as  they  were  in  the  book. 


CLEVS  HALL.  47 

''It  can't  tave  taken  Fanny  mucli  time  to  learn  tliat,  Ella," 
obsei-ved  Bertha  j  ''  she  can't  have  read  it  over  more  than  twice 
or  three  times." 

"  She  knows  the  sense  very  well/'  said  Ella;  ''and  that  is 
all  one  wants." 

"  All  one  wants  for  to-day,  but  not  for  to-morrow.  The 
sense  is  the  spirit,  the  words  are  the  body;  how  can  you  retain 
the  spirit  if  you  give  up  the  body?" 

"  It  is  too  hot  to  argue,"  said  Ella.  "  But  if  spirit  has  to 
act  upon  spirit,  what  need  is  there  of  a  body  ?" 

"  Spirit  alone  never  does  act  upon  spirit  in  this  world,"  said 
Bertha. 

Ella  yawned,  and  closed  her  eyes.  A  tingling,  irritable 
bell  was  just  then  rung.  Bertha  gave  Louisa  her  book,  told 
her  she  had  made  three  mistakes,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room, 
almost  before  Ella  had  time  to  unclose  her  eyes,  and  ask  what 
was  the  matter. 

Ella  certainly  exerted  herself  more  when  left  to  herself.  It 
seemed  as  if  a  perverse  feeling  made  her  determined  upon 
ehowing  herself  more  indolent  in  proportion  as  Bertha  was 
energetic.  She  drew  her  chair  closer  to  the  table,  finished 
hearing  Fanny's  lesson,  then  made  her  go  back  to  her  copy, 
and  bade  Louisa  bring  her  French  History.  That  lesson  was 
pleasant  enough.  Ella  liked  being  read  to,  and  she  was  very 
fond  of  history,  and  had  a  marvellous  memory  for  dates. 

"  I  have  finished  the  ten  pages/'  said  Louisa,  as  she  came 
to  the  conclusion  of  a  chapter. 

"  Never  mind,  go  on  ;  you  must  hear  about  Henri  Quatre." 

Louisa  glanced  at  the  clock.  "  It  is  a  quarter  to  one, 
Ella,  and  it  is  my  music  lesson  day." 

Ella's  sigh  might  have  been  that  of  a  martyr. 

''  I  shall  give  you  your  lesson  in  the  evening,  go  on  now." 

''  And  shall  I  say  the  questions  in  the  evening  ?" 

''  We  will  see ;  go  on." 

Louisa  was  not  fond  of  history,  and  cared  but  little  for 
Henri  Quatre;  and  she  was  provoked  at  having  all  her  time 
occupied  and  so  much  added  to  her  lesson  hours.  She  read 
very  badly,  and  Ella  was  impatient,  and,  striking  the  table  in 
irritation,  shook  Fanny's  hand,  and  made  her  blot  an  exercise 
which  she  had  begun ;  the  copy  having  long  since  been 
brought  to  an  end,  and  put  aside  with  scarcely  a  glance  or  an 
observation.  Fanny  burst  into  tears.  She  was  a  very  unti<ly 
writer,  and  her  exercise  books  were  proverbially  slovenly,  and 


48  CLEVK    JIAIX. 

l?(.'rtli;i  had  lately  endeavored  to  stimulate  her  to  carefulnosa 
by  the  pruiui.se  of  a  reward  whenever  six  exercises  should  ha 
written  without  a  blot. 

"  You  shouldn't  cry,  Fanny,"  said  Louisa ;  "  you  will  make 
your  eyes  red,  and  then  you  won't  be  fit  to  be  seen." 

"  And  it  is  so  silly,  too,"  said  Ella;  "  crying  about  nothing  ! 
what  does  it  signify  ?  Take  it  up  with  your  blotting  paper, 
and  it  will  all  be  right." 

She  returned  again  to  Henri  Quatrc,  and  left  Fanny  to 
mourn  in  lonely  sorrow  over  the  loss  of  her  anticipated  pre- 
sent ;  for  Aunt  Bertha  had  no  mercy  upon  excuses.  The 
blot  was  there,  that  was  enough.  There  would  be  no  ({ucstion 
of  how  it  came. 

The  clock  struck  one.  "  I  should  have  just  time  for  my 
music  lesson,"  said  Louisa,  imploringly. 

"  What?  yes  !"  Ella  was  still  dreaming  over  the  history. 

"  Louisa,  hasn't  Aunt  ]jertha  got  the  llenriade  ?  Just  go 
and  fetch  it,  there's  a  good  child." 

"  The  what,  Ella  ?'' 

'"The  llenriade,  Vo-ltaire's  Henriade;  don't  you  know?" 

Louisa  walked  slowly  out  of  the  room,  and  came  back  with 
a  message  that  Aunt  IJertha  was  engaged,  and  couldn't  attend 
to  anything  of  the  kind  at  present.  Ella  did  not  seem  quite 
to  hear.  Louisa  went  to  the  piano,  opened  it,  and  put  up  her 
music  book. 

"  Louisa,  it  won't  take  you  a  minute ;  just  run  across  the 
garden  up  to  the  Rectory.  Mr.  Lester  has  the  Henriade.  I  am 
nearly  sure  I  saw  it  in  his  study  the  other  day.  He  will  let 
me  have  it." 

Louisa  looked  excessively  discomposed,  and  did  not  move. 

"  Go,  child,  go,"  said  Ella. 

"  Shall  I  go  ?"  asked  Fanny.  She  was  very  tired  of  lessons, 
and  much  enjoyed  the  thought  of  a  run  across  the  turf. 

"Yes;  only  you  don't  understand.  Thei'e,  give  me  a 
piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil;  not  that  one,  that  is  slate  pencil. 
Whei-e  is  the  one  you  were  drawing  with  last  night?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  left  it  on  the  table.  Louisa,  it  was 
your  turn  to  put  away  the  things." 

"  Oh,  Fanny,  indeed,  if  you  remember,  I  took  two  days 
t(»gether,  because  you  had  a  headache." 

"  That  was  a  week  ago,"  said  Fanny,  fretfully;  ''it  wa.s 
your  turn  I  am  sure." 


CLEVE    HALL.  49 

'•'  Never  mind  wliose  turn  it  was/'  exclaimed  Ella  :  '^  only 
fetch  me  a  pencil." 

^'  I  don't  know  where  to  find  one,"  said  Fanny. 

''  Not  know  where  to  find  a  pencil  ?  Why  there  are  huu- 
arods  in  the  house.  Louisa,  give  me  one  of  your  drawing 
oei^cils." 

''  Aunt  Bertha  said  I  was  not  to  lend  them,"  said  Louisa. 

Ella's  color  rose.  "  I  can't  trouble  myself  about  that.  I 
must  have  one." 

Louisa  had  evidently  no  intention  of  obeying.  She  sat 
flaying  with  the  leaves  of  the  music-book,  her  face  resolutely 
directed  a^ray.  Ella  took  up  a  pen,  and  began  to  write  with 
rt  instead. 

''  There,  Fanny,"  and  she  tossed  the  note  to  the  child, 
who  ran  oiF  with  it.  Ella  was  too  much  annoyed  with  Louisa 
to  take  any  notice  of  her ;  and  the  practising  was  begun  and 
continued,  whiJst  Ella  sat  at  the  table  drawing  mathematical 
figures  on  a  sheet  of  note  paper. 

"  That  is  the  first  dinner-bell,"  said  Louisa,  and  she  jumped 
down  from  her  seat,  and  shut  up  the  piano. 

No  answer. 

"  Fanny  will  be  late,"  she  continued  ;  "  she  won't  hear  the 
bell." 

"  She  has  plenty  of  time,"  replied  Ella,  coldly. 

"  Grandmamma  will  be  angry,"  persisted  Louisa. 

"  You  had  better  go  and  get  ready  yourself,  Louisa,"  said 
Ella. 

"  I  must  put  the  room  tidy  first,"  was  the  answer ;  and 
Louisa,  with  the  most  determined  spirit  of  neatness  and  pro- 
vokingness,  not  only  moved  away  everything  which  belonged 
to  herself  and  to  Fanny,  but  also  divers  little  articles  of  pro- 
perty appertaining  to  Ella.  ''  Fanny  will  be  late,"  she 
repeated,  as  she  hastened  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Ella  no- 
thing to  distract  her  eye  from  the  contemplation  of  the  tables 
and  chairs,  except  the  sheet  of  note  paper  on  which  she  was 
scribbling. 

The  second  dinner-bell  rang,  and  Ella  was  not  ready,  and 
Fanny  was  still  at  the  llectory.  Mrs.  Campbell  was  exceed- 
ingly annoyed,  for  punctuality  was  her  darling  virtue,  and 
Lfjuisa  triumphantly  told  the  history  of  how  and  why  it  all 
liappened,  and  was  informed  by  her  grandmamma  that  she 
was  the  only  person  in  the  house  to  be  depended  upon  _: 
wliilst  Bertha  reminded  Ella  that  if  she  had  come  in  in 
3 


50  CLEVE    HALL. 

proper  time,  the  lessons  would  have  been  all  finished  by  one 
o'clock. 

Fanny  appeared  when  dinner  was  half  over ;  and  being 
received  by  harsh  words  and  severe  glances,  burst  into  another 
fit  of  crying,  and  was  again  warned  by  Mrs.  Campbell,  as  the 
most  conclusive  and  natural  argument  for  self-restraint,  that 
she  would  quite  spoil  her  face,  and  make  herself  such  a  figure 
she  would  not  be  fit  to  be  seen. 

That  had  been  a  very  instructive  morning  to  the  children. 
They  had  had  lessons  in  unpunctuality,  ingratitude,  self-in- 
dulgence, procrastination,  absence  of  sympathy,  impatience, 
disobedience  to  orders,  ill-nature,  self-conceit,  and  vanity,  and 
all  through  the  medium  of  French  exercises  and  the  liffl  of 
Henri  Quatre. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


ELLA  had  a  fit  of  the  Ilenriade  that  afternoon,  and  could 
not  go  out ;  so  she  said.  She  wanted  to  compare  the  great 
epic  poems  of  different  countries,  and  she  had  a  notion  of 
writing  an  essay  upon  them.  She  had  read  Dante  often,  and 
knew  Slilton  by  heart.  Homer  was  familiar  to  her,  and  she  had 
a  vague  idea  of  the  merits  of  the  Lusiad,  which,  no  doubt, 
was  more  than  half  the  world  could  boast  of.  Not  that  Ella 
thought  much  about  the  world.  With  all  her  wonderful 
talent,  she  was  free  from  conceit,  and  had  scarcely  any  wish 
for  admiration.  "When  she  talked  of  writing  an  essay  upon 
epic  poets,  it  was  solely  for  her  own  amusement.  She  had  no 
grand  visions  of  fame  and  flattery;  and  if,  now  and  then,  a 
stray  word  of  astonishment  as  to  her  mental  powers  reached 
her  ears,  it  was  always  received  with  surprise.  That  which 
was  so  easy  to  her,  could  not,  she  supposed,  be  difficult  to 
other  people. 

And  then  Ella  never,  or  very  rarely,  finished  anything. 
She  always  worked  from  impulse,  and  her  natural  temperament 
was  extremly  indolent.  Clement  could  sometimes  persuade 
her  to  conclude  what  she  had  begun,  but  no  one  else.  And 
he  was  very  like  herself,  and  seldom  fancied  to-day  what  he 
had  delighted  in  yesterday.  They  were  two  very  interesting, 
clever,  agreeable  companions,  when  they  chose  to  be ;  but  the 


CLEVE    HALL.  51 

clouds  on  a  windy  day  were  not  more  cliangeable,  and  they 
always  required  the  stimulus  of  success  to  make  them  pursue 
any  subject.  Julia's  portfolio  was  filled  with  notes  from  his- 
tory, unfinished  poems,  imitations  of  various  authors,  problems 
from  Euclid,  observations  on  botany,  hints  upon  geology, 
copies  of  Hebrew  and  Arabic  letters,  interspersed  with  gro- 
tesque caricatures,  clever  pencil  sketches,  or  grand  designs  in 
some  new  style  of  water-colors.  The  marvel  was,  that  in 
attempting  to  know  so  much,  she  should  succeed  in  knowing 
anything.  A  person  with  less  natural  powers  would  have  been 
uttei'ly  crushed  by  the  mountain  of  mental  dust  accumulated 
by  these  broken  ideas ;  but  Ella's  memory  was  so  retentive, 
and  her  powers  of  perception  were  so  keen,  that,  give  her  any 
fragments  of  knowledge,  however  broken,  and  she  could  put 
them  together,  when  occasion  required,  so  as  to  present  a  very 
fair  semblance  of  real  information. 

"  Ella  knows  everj'thing,"  was  Mrs.  Campbell's  proud 
remark,  when  some  chance  observation  brought  out  from  the 
stores  of  her  granddaughter's  memory  a  forgotten  or  obsolcto 
fact. 

"Ella  does  nothing,"  was  Bertha's  mournful  observatii/u 
to  Mr.  Lester,  when  conversing  upon  the  children's  future 
prospects. 

There  are  difi"erent  powers  of  mind  required  for  knowing 
and  doing.  People  often  cultivate  the  former  whilst  they 
neglect  the  latter.  They  do  not  see  that  we  may  know  with- 
out doing,  but  Ave  can  scarcely  continue  long  in  doing  without 
knowing. 

But  to  give  Ella  all  the  excuse  possible,  she  had  had  verji 
little  teaching  or  training  in  either  the  one  or  the  other. 
After  an  infancy  passed  in  the  enervating  climate  of  the  West 
Indies,  she  had  been  sent  to  England  and  placed  under  the 
care  of  persons  who  did  not  understand  her,  and  who,  if  they 
had  understood  her,  would  not  have  known  how  to  guide  her. 
Mrs.  Campbell  was,  in  her  younger  days,  the  most  rigid  of 
disciplinarians.  She  had  tutored,  and  checked,  and  warned, 
and  fretted  her  own  daughters,  until  one  in  despair  rushed 
into  a  hasty  and  unfortunate  marriage,  and  the  other  becanje 
a  pattern  of  obedience  and  self-denial,  but  with  all  her  warm, 
natural  impulses  chilled,  her  powers  of  enjoyment  deadened, 
and  her  notions  of  goodness,  either  moral  or  religious,  absorbed 
in  the  one  stern  idea  of  duty,  duty  both  for  herself  and  others, 
liut  without  mercy  and  without  love. 


b'J.  CLEVE   HALL. 

Ami  El];i  liad  no  natural  love  of  duty.  Perhaps  it  may  ]>(■. 
said  that  wo  none  of  us  have.  Yet,  surely,  this^  is  not  so. 
There  is  an  innate  taste  for  duty,  which  goes  with  the  love  of 
order  and  regularity,  and  the  spirit  of  perseverance.  Sonio 
persons  like  to  continue  any  habits  they  have  commenced ; 
they  like  to  keep  to  rules  j  they  are  very  particular  about 
punctuality  and  neatness;  all  these  things  are  the  germs  of 
duty.  When  softened  by  unselfishness  and  warm  feelings, 
they  will  form  a  very  superior  character.  But  Ella's  mind  and 
Ella's  theories — and  she  very  early  began  to  form  theories — 
were  all  based  upon  two  priucij)les,  inclination  and  aflection. 
If  they  happened  to  correspond  with  duty,  it  was  so  much  the 
better;  if  they  did  not — she  really  could  not  do  what  she  felt 
no  interest  in  doing,  she  could  not  work  for  people  who  were 
indifferent  to  her. 

Mrs.  Campbell,  with  the  singular  weakness  which  makes 
the  most  rigid  of  parents  spoil  their  grandchildren,  had  early 
given  way  to  this  argument.  Ella  did  so  much  when  work 
was  her  choice,  that  she  was  allowed  to  do  little  or  nothing 
when  it  was  not ;  whilst  Bertha,  following  the  severe  reason- 
ing in  which  she  had  herself  been  trained,  looked  with  nearly 
equal  regret  upon  Ella's  doings  or  not  doings,  because  she  said 
that  work  performed  merely  from  choice,  wus  as  little  valuable 
in  a  moral  point  of  view  as  idleness. 

Ella's  had  been  a  trying,  fretting,  uncongenial  life,  and  she 
thought  herself  a  martyr.  She  was  by  nature  intensely  proud, 
and  the  moment  any  accusation  was  brought  against  herself, 
she  tried  that  ready  weapon  of  self-defence,  retaliation.  If 
Bertha  complained  of  Ella's  being  indolent  and  unpractical, 
Ella  complained  of  Bertha's  being  cold  and  harsh.  If  the 
one  forgot  from  indolence,  the  other  forgot  from  over  occiipa- 
tion.  If  the  one  was  unpunctual  because  she  would  not  make 
an  effort  to  be  the  reverse,  the  other  was  so  because  she  was 
at  every  one's  call  for  some  act  of  self-denying  kindness,  and 
therefore  could  not  reckon  her  time  her  own. 

There  is  nothing  so  blinding  as  this  spirit  of  retaliation, 
this  pride  which  makes  us  always  take  the  offensive  when 
called  to  stand  upon  the  defensive.  It  was  the  greatest  pos- 
sible effort  for  Ella  to  confess  herself  in  the  wrong.  If  she 
ever  did,  it  was  not  at  the  moment  of  accusation,  when  ac- 
knowledgment would  have  been  gracious  and  humble ;  but  on 
some  after  occasion,  when  other  circumstances  had  softened 


CLEVE    HALL.  53 

her  feelings,  and  made  it  a  matter  of  certainty  that  the  affaii 
would  be  passed  over  lightly. 

And  so  Ella  Vivian  knew  nothing  of  herself,  and  vciy  little 
of  others,  and  lived  in  a  world  of  self-indulgence  aud  self-reli- 
ance, all  the  more  dangerous,  because  her  talents  made  it  easy 
to  her  to  be  agreeable,  and  lier  freedom  from  many  of  the  more 
open  and  grave  faults  of  her  age  made  it  almost  impossible  to 
convince  her  that  she  was  not  as  good  or  even  better  than 
others. 

JMrs.  Campbell  had  been  at  EncorLbe  three  months  :  before 
that  time  they  had  lived  at  a  small  country  town  in  the  north. 
No  exact  reason  was  given  for  the  change,  except  that  the 
country  was  beautiful,  and  the  sea  air  invigorating,  and  the 
village  in  the  neighborhood  of  Cleve  Hall.  To  be  near  their 
grandfather  seemed  to  Ella  quite  a  sufficient  cause  for  the 
migration,  and  she  had  conjured  up  many  visions  of  grandeur 
and  enjoyment  both  for  herself  and  Clement,  which  were  all, 
however,  dispersed  on  their  arrival.  Cleve  Hall  was  less  open 
to  them  than  any  other  house  in  the  village.  G-eneral  Vivian 
was  less  known  to  them  than  any  other  person.  Even  Aunt 
Mildred,  the  gentle,  cheerful,  loving  Aunt  Mildred,  whose 
smile  was  fascination,  and  her  voice  like  the  echo  of  the  softest 
music,  was  as  a  person  tabooed.  They  rarely  saw  her ;  when 
they  did,  their  visits  were  short  and  unsatisfactory.  She  evi- 
dently wished  to  keep  them  with  her,  but  she  never  did.  She 
wished  to  make  them  at  home  with  her,  but  the  mysteiy 
which  enveloped  everything  at  Cleve  mutually  repelled  them. 
They  spoke  of  their  father,  and  the  subject  was  diverted. 
They  expressed  a  desire  to  see  something  in  a  distant  part  of 
the  house,  and  an  excuse  was  at  hand.  They  asked  to  run  in 
the  garden,  and  the  timepiece  was  consulted  to  know  whether 
it  would  be  the  hour  for  Grandpapa  to  be  there  also.  And  if, 
by  any  chance,  they  met  the  General,  the  first  impulse  of 
ever}"  grown-up  person  who  accompanied  them  seemed  to  be 
to  avoid  him. 

Of  course  Ella  asked  the  meaning  of  all  this.  At  sixteen, 
with  a  most  determined  will,  and  a  keen  curiosity,  who  would 
not  have  done  so  ?  And  very  unsatisfactory  were  the  answers 
which  she  received.  JMrs.  Campbell  generally  began  at  once 
ttj  remark  upon  General  Vivian's  unbending  character;  whilst 
Ijcrtha,  dreading  to  give  confidence  where  she  felt  none,  used 
generally  to  stop  her  by  the  observation,  "  You  will  know  all 
pbout  it;  my  dear,  in  time." 


54  CLEVE    HALL, 

]?ut  Ella  felt  that  she  did  not  know  all  about  it,  ainl  tlint 
she  was  not  likely  to  do  so.  Her  father  ought  to  be  the  heir 
of  Cleve ;  and  Clcuicnt  was  his  only  son.  She  had  heard  of 
some  disagrccniont  with  her  grandfather,  and  she  knew  thnt 
her  fiither  had  lived  for  many  ye:irs  in  the  West  Indies  in 
fonsequcnce ;  but  it  seemed  very  hard  that  the  punishment 
shduld  also  fall  upon  the  children.  ]>ertha  told  her  that  her 
fiither  was  a  poor  man,  and  certainly  from  some  cause  or  other, 
1011a  saw  they  were  all  poor.  But  General  Vivian  had  houses, 
niid  lands,  and  carriages,  and  servants,  and  all  the  luxuries  of 
life  at  command.  A  very  small  sacrifice  on  his  part  would 
have  made  them  comparatively  affluent.  Why  wa-j  it  not 
asked  for?  Ella  chafed  under  her  privations.  She  felt  there 
must  be  injustice  somewhere,  and  she  could  not  resign  her- 
self to  it,  and  when  tormented  by  her  own  ill-regulated  mind, 
she  shared  her  anger  with  her  twin  brother  Clement. 

And  Clement  was  a  willing  recipient  of  all  her  complaints. 
I'roud  and  self-indulgent,  like  Ella,  he  could  not  endure  to 
remain  in  a  position  which  he  believed  beneath  him.  But  for 
the  influence  of  his  cousin,  Ronald  Vivian,  lie  might,  like  her, 
have  spent  his  time  in  day-dreams  of  grandeur;" but  Ronald 
was  fiery  and  impetuous,  and  full  of  the  spirit  of  adventure  ; 
and  Clement,  feeling  the  power  of  his  strong  will,  and  admir- 
ing the  noble  points  of  his  character,  followed  him  whenever 
and  wherever  he  was  able,  and  fancied  that  in  partaking  his 
])nrsuits  he  was  escaping  from  boyhood  to  manhood,  and  there- 
fore at  liberty  to  be  his  own  master. 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  Eneombe  Lodge ;  most 
unfortunate  for  all,  most  especially  trying  to  Bertha  Campbell. 

Ella  was  only  sixteen,  whilst  Bertha  was  two-and-thirty. 
Respect,  therefore,  was  due  from  the  one  to  the  other,  if  it 
were  only  from  difference  of  age.  Yet  Bertha  had  great 
difficulty  in  exacting  it;  partly  owing  to  the  fact  that  when 
the  children  first  came  to  live  with  them,  Mrs.  Campbell  took 
the  sole  charge  upon  herself,  and  spoilt  them  by  over  indul- 
gence, whilst  she  was  always  blaming  Bertha;  and  partly 
owing  to  Bertha's  own  defect  of  manner  and  Ella's  superiority 
of  intellect,  which  made  her  at  sixteen  almost  a  woman.  Now, 
whenever  there  was  a  difference  between  them,  Mrs.  Campbcdl 
was  appealed  to,  and  invariably  took  Ella's  part ;  and  thus  the 
breach  was  widened.  The  ill  feeling  extended  itself  to  Cle- 
ment, who  always  approved  Ella's  decisions,  and  never  could 
bear  Aunt  Bertha's   cold  way  of  reminding  him  of  what  he 


CLEVE    HALL.  6o 

Uid  to  ilo.  It  was  better  witli  the  little  ones.  Loiiisa  liked 
Aunt  Bertlia  because  she  was  always  the  same.  She  suffered 
so  much  from  Ella's  moods,  that  it  was  a  perfect  luxury  to  turn 
to  some  one  who  was  certain  to  give  her  a  patient  hearina;,  and 
never  found  fault  unless  there  was  really  a  cause.  She  did 
not  love  her.  Aunt  Bertha  was  not  attractive  to  children ; 
she  was  so  slow  and  methodical,  and  so  little  understood  how 
to  enter  into  their  amusements;  biit  Louisa  respected  and 
obeyed  her,  and  made  Fanny  do  the  same.  It  would  have 
been  a  great  comfort  to  the  children  if  they  had  been  allowed 
always  to  do  their  lessons  with  Bertha;  but  it  was  one  of 
Ella's  few  dreams  of  usefulness,  consequent  upon  rather  a 
long  fit  of  illness,  that  she  would  educate  her  younger  sisters ; 
and  in  the  days  of  convalescence  she  wrote  two  chapters  of  a 
work  on  education,  and  formed  a  plan  for  a  new  grammar, 
which  was  to  make  Grerman  as  easy  to  learn  as  French  or 
Italian ;  and  when  pronounced  to  be  quite  well,  how  could  she 
think  herself  otherwise  than  competent  to  undertake  any 
educational  task,  however  important  1 

Ella  had  imbibed  too  many  high  principles  not  to  have  great 
notions  of  goodness,  and  she  was  too  clever  not  to  put  them 
into  some  tangible  form;  but  she  never  liked  trying  virtues 
upon  herself;  she  preferred  rather  seeing  how  they  suited 
others.  Her  theories  for  Louisa  and  Fanny  were  perfectly 
admirable ;  she  talked  of  nothing  but  education  for  a  whole 
month,  especially  to  her  grandmamma,  who  was  entirely  con- 
vinced by  her,  and  believed  that  she  was  fully  as  competent  to 
the  work  as  Bertha,  if  not  more  so.  The  plan  had  been  tried 
now  for  three  months, — ever  since  they  came  to  Encombe. 
Bertha  resigned  herself  to  it,  for  the  simple  reason  that  there 
was  nothing  else  to  be  done ;  and  when  she  found  that  Ella's 
want  of  steadiness  and  perseverance  was  a  stumbling-block  in 
the  way  of  the  children's  improvement,  she  quietly  undertook 
all  that  was  left  undone,  and  so,  without  intending  it,  increased 
Ella's  self-deception. 

Certainly,  if  there  was  a  martyr  in  the  family,  it  was  Bertha. 
The  trials  which  she  had  endured  in  her  comparatively  short 
life  might  have  crushed  a  less  brave  and  enduring  spirit  to  the 
dust.  Little,  indeed,  did  Ella  think,  when  she  laughed  at,  and 
teased,  and  disobeyed  her  quiet,  cold-mannered,  impassive  aunt, 
that  thought  for  her,  care  for  her  intei-ests,  anxiety  for  her 
future  prospects,  had  robbed  Bertha's  cheek  of  its  bloom,  and 
cau.sed  the  dark  lines  of  anxiety  to  ,'<hade  her  forehead.     Per- 


50  CLEVE   HALL. 

Imps  it  mit^lit  liavc  been  better  fur  lier  if  ,shc  hail  known  it ; 
better  if  the  veil  which  was  cast  over  the  history  of  her  family 
liad  been  thrown  aside,  and  she  had  seen  herself  the  helpless, 
poverty-stricken  child  of  a  disinherited  man,  indebted  for  every 
comfort  which  she  enjoyed  to  the  self-denying  exertions  of  one 
whose  daily  life  was  rendered  miserable  by  her  thoughtless 
jictrlisence. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


•'  A  UNT  BERTHxV,  wc  may  put  on  our  old  things,  and  go 
XL  to  the  shore,  mayn't  we  V  Louisa's  voice  was  heard 
from  the  top  of  the  stairs.  She  had  been  trj-ing  to  persuade 
Fanny  that  it  would  be  better  to  wear  an  old  bonnet;  and 
Fanny  was  not  inclined  to  agree,  because  she  looked  much 
prettier  in  a  new  one. 

**  Yes,  to  the  shore;  I  shall  be  ready  in  five  minutes;"  and 
Louisa  retired  triumphant.  Louisa  was  in  time  herself,  and 
contrived  that  Fanny  should  be  the-  same ;  a  circumstance  to 
which  she  did  not  fail  to  draw  Bertha's  attention,  and  received 
as  an  answer,  that  punctuality  was  a  good  thing,  but  humility 
was  a  better.  They  set  off  across  the  garden  to  the  Rectory, 
as  they  were  to  call  for  Rachel  on  their  way. 

"1  dare  say  Clement  will  be  on  the  shore,"  said  Fanny; 
"  he  said  he  should  go  there  after  he  had  done  with  Mr. 
Lester." 

Bertha  looked  grave. 

"  Is  there  any  reason  why  Clement  should  not  go  ?"  asked 
the  quick-eyed  Louisa. 

"  None,  if  he  does  what  he  ought  to  do,"  was  the  cautious 
reply. 

"  Old  Mrs.  Clarke,  the  sexton's  mother,  says  he  gets  about 
amongst  all  kinds  of  people,"  said  Fanny,  "  when  he  goes  to 
the  shore." 

<<  When  did  old  Mrs.  Clarke  talk  to  you  upon  such  sub- 
jects?" inquired  Bertha. 

''  Oh  !  the  other  day,"  replied  Louisa,  "when  we  went  to 
tee  her  with  Ella.  She  says,"  she  added,  drawing  up  her 
head,  "  that  it  is  not  fit  for  the  heir  of  such  a  place  as  Cleve 


CLEVE   HALL.  57 

Hall  to  be  sj)cuding  his  time  amongst  smugglers  and  low 
people." 

"  It  is  not  fit  for  any  one  wlio  wislies  to  be  a  gentleman," 
said  Bertha,  rather  sternly;  "but  remember,  children,  you  are 
not  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Clarke  or  to  any  one  iu  that  way." 

"  We  can't  help  it,"  said  Fanny;   "she  talks  to  us." 

Bertha's  conscience  a  little  reproached  her.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  she  was  wrong  in  not  giving  Ella  more  confidence.  She 
might  leaiTi  to  be  discreet  if  she  were  trusted.  But  Bertha 
had  never  received  confidence,  and  it  was  not  easy  to  learn  to 
give  it.  She  walked  on  very  silently  and  thoughtfully ;  and 
the  children,  finding  she  did  not  enter  into  what  they  said,  ran 
along  the  path  together. 

They  came  in  front  of  the  Rectory,  and  passed  the  library 
window.  Louisa,  of  course,  looked  in ;  her  curiosity  was  in- 
satiable. "  Aunt  Bertha," — and  she  drew  near  her  aunt, — 
"  there  was  a  stranger  with  Mr.  Lester,  I  am  sure." 

"Perhaps  so,  my  dear;"  and  Bertha  only  moved  on  the 
faster. 

"  But  who  could  it  be  ?"  continued  Louisa. 

"  It  must  be  one  of  the  shipwrecked  people,"  said  Fanny ; 
"  perhaps  it  was  the  captain  of  the  vessel." 

"He  looked  rather  like  a  sailor,"  observed  Louisa;  "do 
you  think  it  was  the  captain,  Avmt  Bertha  ?" 

"  My  love,  how  can  I  tell  ?  and  what  does  it  signify  ?" 

"  But  if  it  was  the  captain,  I  should  like  to  hear  all  he  nas 
to  say,  and  how  it  all  happened,"  said  Fanny ;  "  I  dare  say  he 
would  tell  us  ;  and  we  might  make  a  story  out  of  it.  Do  you 
know,  Aunt  Bertha,  we  began  making  out  a  story  yesterday, 
only  Ella  said  it  was  nonsense." 

"I'll  tell  you  who  it  was,"  said  Louisa,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  has  deeply  consid Bred  a  subject;  "it's  that  Mr.  Bruce 
vrhom  Ilonald  saved." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  Mr.  Bruce?"  inquired  Bertha. 

"  Oh !  the  daiiy-woman  from  the  farm  told  Betsey  about 
him,  and  she  told  me.  He  is  not  very  well,  and  perhaps  he 
may  stay  at  the  farm,  and  perhaps  he  may  be  at  the  Inn  at 
Cleve." 

"Then  it  is  not  likely  he  should  be  here,"  said  Bertha. 

"  lie  may  be  going  to  Cleve  by-and-by,"  said  Louisa  ;  "  I 
am  sure  it  is  Mr.  Bruce."  She  nodded  her  head  with  an  air 
ivhifh  ;idinittf'd  no  open  dissent  from  her  opinion. 


58  CLEYE    HALL. 

"Well;  wc  need  not  trouble  ourselves  about  it;  we  ;ire 
not  likely  to  see  hiin,"  said  Bertha;   "and  here  is  Rachel." 

"And  Mrs.  Robinson  with  her/'  whispered  Fanny;  whilst 
Louisa  pronounced  decidedly^  "  I  don't  like  Mrs.  Robinson." 

Racliel  ran  up  to  thcni.  Mrs.  Robinson  came  slowly  be- 
hind. She  was  a  very  different  person  under  different  circum- 
stances and  to  different  people.  Now  she  was  not  so  much 
reserved  as  very  stiff.  She  made  a  respectful  curtsey  to  lier- 
tha,  and  would  have  passed  on,  but  Rachel  would  not  let  her 
go.  "  Granny,  dear,  you  must  wait,  and  tell  Miss  Campbell 
and  the  others  all  about  it;  they  will  like  to  liear  so  much. 
AYouldn't  you  like  to  hear  all  about  the  shipwrecked  people 
who  were  taken  in  at  the  farm  i"'  she  added,  addressing 
Bertha. 

"  We  won't  trouble  Mrs.  Robinson  if  she  is  in  a  hurry," 
replied  Bertha,  civilly,  but  rather  formally :  "you  must  tell 
us  yourself,  Rachel." 

"  But  I  can't.  Granny  tells  stories  so  mucli  better  than  I 
do,  and  I  can't  remember  it  all.  There  were  five  Americans, 
and  a  Frenchman,  and  a  German,  weren't  there  ?  And  they 
slept — where  did  they  sleep?  Oh  !  Granny,  you  must  tell  all 
about  it." 

"Not  now.  Miss  Rachel;  another  time,  my  dear." 

"  But  tell  her  just  about  Rouald.  Miss  Campbell  likes  to 
hear  about  him  always." 

"The  young  gentleman  was  off  to  the  ship  by  daylight," 
said  Mrs.  Robinson,  speaking  very  slowly,  "  helping  to  get  the 
goods  on  shore  ;  for  there  are  some  left  on  board,  though  the 
ship  is  likely,  they  say,  to  go  to  pieces.  But  that's  like  him, 
Ma'am,  as  you  know." 

"  And  Mr.  Bmce  wanted  to  see  him  and  thank  him," 
added  Rachel;  "but  Ronald  is  so  strange  he  won't  go  neai 
him." 

"  And  it's  Mr.  Bruce  who  is  in  the  library  with  your  Papa, 
Rachel ;  isn't  it  ?"  inquired  Louisa. 

Mrs.  Robinson  answered  for  her,  rather  quickly,  "  Yes, 
Miss  Louisa,  it  is  Mr.  Bruce.  He  is  going  into  Cleve  this 
afternoon,  to  look  about  him.  I  think.  Ma'am,  if  you  are 
thinking  of  the  shore  you  had  best  make  haste,  if  you  will 
excuse  my  saying  so ;  the  tide  will  be  on  the  turn  soon."  She 
moved  away. 

"There  now,"  and  Louisa  clapped  her  hands;   "didn't  1 


CLEVE   HALL.  59 

say  it  was  Mr.  Bruce?  I  am  always  right.  What  is  he  like, 
llachel  V 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know.  I  only  saw  him  for  a  moment.  He 
came  into  the  room  with  Papa,  and  said  how  d'ye  do ;  but  of 
course  I  didn't  stare  at  him." 

"  I  should  have  stared,  though,"  whispered  Louisa.  I 
thinks  he  looks  very  like  a  sailor." 

'*  I  wish  I  could  have  asked  him  how  he  felt  when  he 
believed  he  was  going  to  be  drowned,"  said  Rachel,  veiy 
thoughtfully.  "  Papa  told  me  once,  that  some  people,  when 
they  have  been  nearly  drowned,  have  had  all  their  lives  come 
back  to  them, — all  they  have  done." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  trying  to  realize  the  idea. 
Bertha  lingered  also. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  so  ?  Do  you  think  it  is  possible  ?"  said 
llachel. 

"  Quite  possible,  dear  Rachel." 

"But  do  you  think  it  is  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  people  say  it." 

"  And  do  they  look  like  other  people,  and  come  back  and 
live  amongst  them,  as  they  did  before  ?" 

"  They  look  like  others, — one  may  hope  they  don't  live 
quite  like  them." 

"  Then,  Miss  Campbell,"  and  Rachel  clung  closely  to 
Bertha's  side,  and  her  voice  was  full  of  awe,  "  I  wish  that 
God  would  let  me  be  nearly  drowned." 

Bertha  half  started. 

"  It  isn't  wicked,  is  it  ?"  continued  Rachel,  anxiously,  as 
she  watched  the  expression  of  Bertha's  countenance.  "  But 
1  would  bear  anything,  yes,  anything  in  all  the  world,  to  be 
very,  wonderfully  good.  Wouldn't  you  ?"  In  her  enthusiasm 
Bhe  caught  Bertha's  hand,  and  held  it  as  they  walked  on 
together. 

"Yes  indeed,  Rachel;"  and  Bertha's  cold,  calm  eyes 
sparkled  with  a  lightning  flash  of  animation. 

"Wonderfully  good,"  continued  Rachel;  "not  a  little 
good,  but,  oh  !"  and  she  drew  a  long  breath,  "so  very,  very, — 
beyond  all  thought.      Will  God  make  us  so,  if  we  wish  it?" 

Bertha  hesitated.  "  We  may  hope  He  will,  if  we  can  bear 
the  means." 

There  was  a  pause ;  and  then  Bertha  heard,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  the  words,  "  I  would  try." 

Rachel  seemed  cou.^ideriiig  something  deeply;   and  after  a 


CO  CLEVE    HALL. 

few  seconds,  resuming  her  natural  tone,  said  :  "  Is  there  anj 
harm  iu  thinking  about  it  a  great  dtsd,  and  liking  it,  in  a 
way  ?" 

''What  do  3'ou  mean,  Eachcl  ?" 

"  I  can't  exactly  explain ;  but  don't  you  know  how  Elki 
likes  to  read  about  knights,  and  tournaments,  and  persons 
being  brave  and  generous, — what  one  reads  iu  Froissart,  and 
those  books  ?" 

"Yes;  well:"  and  Bertha  turned  to  her  with  an  air  ol" 
mingled  wonder  and  interest. 

"  Then,  when  Ella  reads  about  such  things,  and  gets  intt. 
a  way  about  them,  I  never  feel  as  she  does ;  but  I  do  feel  it 
when  I  read  about  martyrs,  and  people  who  have  been  so 
good ;  and  it  makes  my  heart  beat  fast,  and  my  head  seems 
almost  dizzy,  as  if  I  could  do  anything  to  be  like  them.  Is 
it  wrong  ?" 

"Of  coui'se  not,  dear  Rachel;  you  can't  help  it." 

"  But  do  you  ever  feel  it  ?" 

The  answer  was  low  and  doubtful :  "I  hope  I  do." 

"  I  don't  think  all  people  do,"  continued  liachel;  "and  it 
puzzles  me,  and  sometimes  I  think  that,  perhaps,  it  is  being 
proud  and  presumptuous  to  long  to  be  first  in  anything." 

"  We  can  only  be  first  by  being  last  in  those  things,"  said 
Bertha. 

"  No ;  and  perhaps  I  am  not  willing  to  be  last :  and  yet  it 

seems '\she  hesitated,  and  added:  "Aunt  Mildred  says 

she  should  not  wish  for  the  glory,  if  she  might  only  have  the 
love." 

Bertha's  eyes  glistened. 

"  Aunt  IMildred  would  be  so  glad  if  she  could  have  you  to 
talk  to  as  I  have,"  continued  Rachel,  eagerly. 

"Aunt  Mildred  doesn't  know  anything  about  me,"  replied 
Bertha ;  whilst  her  manner  became  in  a  moment  constrained. 

"I  talk  to  her  about  you,"  said  Rachel,  "and  she  very 
often  says  she  should  like  to  see  you.  Will  you  go  with  me  to 
the  Hall,  some  day?" 

"Aunt  Mildred  is  very  kind,  and  talks  about  things  which 
interest  you,  Rachel,"  replied  Bertha;  "but  I  don't  believe 
she  would  really  like  to  see  me." 

"Not  if  she  says  it?"  exclaimed  Rachel.  "Oh,  Miss 
Campbell !  then  she  would  say  what  was  not  true." 

"  She  would  like  to  see  me  for  your  sake,"  replied  Bertha, 


CLEVE    HALL.  61 

in  the  same  tone  of  cold  reserve ;  "  slic  wonld  not  wish  it  for 
her  own." 

The  conversation  dropped.  When  Bertha  assumed  this 
peculiar  manner  she  was  impenetrahle. 

llachel  was  chilled,  yet  she  was  very  fond  of  Bertha  Camp- 
bell ;  she  had  an  intuitive  appreciation  of  her  excellence, — a 
conviction  that  upon  the  points  nearest  her  own  heart  she 
might  obtain  sympathy  from  her.  Might !  for  it  was  never 
certain.  Bertha  was  unable  to  bring  out  her  own  feelings; 
perhaps  even  she  was  uncertain  that  she  had  them,  and  often 
she  expressed  wonder  when  llachel  expected  sympathy.  Yet 
Bachel's  simple,  true  devotion,  and  her  open-hearted  warmth 
of  affection,  often  touched  a  chord  in  Bertha's  heart  which 
seemed  to  unlock  a  new  source  of  untold  pleasure.  Love  in 
religion  was  very  new  to  her.  She  had  been  educated  with  a 
di-ead  of  expressing  strong  feeling  of  any  kind;  and  had 
known  fatal  results  from  the  indulgence  of  what  she  had  been 
taught  to  call  enthusiasm;  and  so  she  always  suspected  that 
evil  must  lurk  under  it. 

Yet  she  could  not  warn  Rachel,  still  less  in  any  way  reprove 
her.  Even  when  unable  to  comprehend  her,  she  could  see 
that  llachel  possessed  something  which  was  wanting  in  herself, 
and  which  would  make  her  life  much  happier.  Perhaps  the 
charm  was  all  the  greater  because  it  seemed  beyond  her  reach, 
i^he  felt  as  though  llachel  belonged  to  a  different  race,  and  as 
if  by  being  with  her  a  vent  was  opened  for  the  latent  poetry 
of  feeling  which,  unknown  to  herself,  was  unquestionably  a 
jjart  of  her  own  character. 

They  reached  the  shore  :  the  wind  had  gone  down  rapidly 
since  the  morning,  and  now  the  sea  was  as  calm  as  if  the 
wrathful  tempest  had  never  passed  ovar  it.  The  hulk  of  the 
dismantled  vessel,  however,  bore  witness  to  its  fatal  work,  and 
the  shore  wa.s  covered  with  persons  groping  about  in  the  hope 
of  picking  up  something  that  might  be  worth  carrying  away. 
Bertha  had  forgotten  this  possibility,  and  when  she  saw  the 
numbers  assembled  her  first  impulse  was  to  go  back.  Louisa 
strongly  opposed  the  idea,  and  Fanny  nearly  cried  with  disap- 
pointment. 

"You  knoAv,  Aunt  Bertha,"  said  Louisa,  "that  if  we  go 
back  we  shall  have  had  no  walk  at  all  to  speak  of,  and  Grand- 
mamma wishes " 

*'  1  am  the  best  judge  of  Grandmamma's  wishes,  Louisa; 


62  CLEVE   HALL. 

there  are  too  many  people  here,  a  grc:it  tleal.  I  can't  possiblj 
let  you  go  amongst  them." 

llachel  gazed  wistfully  on  the  vessel.  "  The  tide  is  so  hi 
out  that  we  could  have  gone  quite  close  to  it,"  she  said. 
"  llow  unfortunate !" 

"  And  it  will  be  all  to  pieces  in  a  day  or  two/'  observed 
Louisa.     "  Goff  says  there  isn't  a  chance  for  it." 

"  Goif,  my  dear  Louisa !  how  do  you^  know  anything  of 
what  he  thinks  ?" 

"  Oh  !  because  a  man  camo  to  the  back  door  when  Fanny 
and  I  were  in  Jhe  garden  this  morning,  and  we  heard  him 
talking  to  Betsey,  and  telling  what  the  people  in  the  village 
said." 

*^Alwa3\s  listening,"  was  Bertha's  comment:  to  which 
Louisa  replied,  with  a  blush,  that  she  could  not  help  hearing 
what  was  said  quite  close  to  her ',  adding,  however,  directly 
afterwards,  "  That  is,  I  think  I  might  have  got  out  of  the  way 
if  I  had  wished  it." 

"  I  should  like  Ronald  to  be  here  to  tell  us  where  the  rock 
was  that  Mr.  Bruce  was  clinging  to,"  said  Rachel,  as  they 
stood  upon  the  summit  of  the  cliff  and  looked  down. 

Bertha  had  appeared  uninterested  before,  but  she  woke  up 
at  the  observation.  *'  It  was  the  farthest  of  those  great  rocks 
you  see  out  towards  the  point,"  she  said. 

''  Oh  !  the  Lion,  and  the  Bear,  and  the  Fox,  we  always  call 
them,"  exclamed  Fanny.  "  It  must  have  been  the  Lion,  for 
that  has  the  most  sea-weed  growing  upon  it." 

"  Yes,  the  Lion's  Mane,  as  Ella  calls  it,"  observed  Louisa. 
"  She  said  one  day  she  meant  to  write  some  verses  about  it.  I 
dare  say  she  will,  now  there  has  been  such  an  adventure." 

"  And  Ronald  will  be  the  hero  !"  exclaimed  Fanny,  clap- 
ping her  hands.     "  Won't  it  be  fun,  Rachel  ?" 

Rachel  did  not  answer  directly. 

"  Shouldn't  you  like  Ella  to  write  something  about  it  ?" 
again  inquired  Fanny. 

"  I  don't  quite  know;  I  don't  think  I  should  like  Ronald 
to  be  written  about,  at  least  not  in  that  way." 

"  Rachel,  how  absurd  !"  exclaimed  Louisa.     "Why  not  ?" 

Bertha  listened  attentively  to  the  reply. 

"  I  can't  exactly  say;  it  is  something  I  feel,  but  Miss  Camp- 
bell will  know;"  and  Rachel  turned  to  Bertha,  feeling  at  once 
that  she  was  speaking  to  some  one  who  would  understand  with- 


CLEVE    HALL.  G3 

Dufc  words.  "  If  Ella  could  write  just  wliat  Ronald  felt,  I 
shouldu't  cai'e,"  she  continued.     "But  then  how  could  she?" 

"  She  Biio'lit  imagine  it,"  said  Louisa. 

"  But  if  it  were  imagination,  it  wouldn't  be  true." 

"  And  it  must  be  some  one  different  from  Ella  to  under- 
stand Ronald  truly,"  said  Bertha,  in  a  low  voice. 

"■  Thank  you,  thank  you;  that  was  just  what  I  meant,  only 
I  couldn't  explain." 

Louisa  and  Fanny  moved  away,  not  caring  for  the  explana- 
tion. Rachel  held  Bertha's  hand,  and  drew  her  nearer  to  the 
edge  of  the  cliff.  Her  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  rock,  and  a 
long  time  elapsed  before  she  spoke.  At  last,  without  any  pre- 
face, she  said,  "  Miss  Campbell,  is  Ronald  good  ?" 

Silence  was  her  answer ;  and  when  she  looked  round,  a  tear 
was  rolling  down  Bertha's  cheek.  Rachel  asked  no  more 
questions,  but  followed  Louisa  and  Fanny  j  and  Bertha  was 
left  alone. 

The  children  seated  themselves  ou  a  bench  placed  on  the 
top  of  the  cliff.  Louisa  and  Fanny  were  sufficiently  amused 
by  watching  what  was  going  on  below;  and  even  Rachel, 
though  she  occasionally  glanced  at  the  spot  where  Bertha  was 
standing,  soon  entered  into  their  interest,  and  laughed  more 
merrily  than  either. 

"  A  beautiful  evening,  young  ladies,"  said  a  voice  behind 
them.  Rachel  started,  and  involuntarily  stood  up  to  move 
awa}',  when  she  saw  Captain  Vivian. 

"  Come  down  to  see  the  fun,  I  suppose?"  he  continued. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  I  think, — Louisa,  had  we  not  better  go 
to  your  Aunt  ?" 

"  Oh  !  never  mind  me  ;  don't  let  me  interrapt  you.  How 
d'ye  do,  Miss  Campbell  ?"  and  Captain  Vivian  held  out  his 
hand  to  Bertha,  who  at  that  moment  came  up.  Bertha  greeted 
him  formally,  and  a  sign  to  the  children  told  them  they  were 
to  go  on ;  and  with  an  instinctive  terror  of  Captain  Vivian, 
they  ran  till  they  were  quite  beyond  the  reach  of  his  voice. 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  we  met  to  talk,  Miss  Campbell. 
I've  been  away  a  good  deal  till  lately.  But  you  are  looking  as 
if  the  sea  air  agreed  with  you." 

He  evidently  meant  to  be  courteous ;  and  though  Bertha 
was  so  pale  as  to  belie  the  compliment  which  had  been  paid 
licr,  she  showed  no  wish  to  shun  the  interview. 

*'  I  scarcely  expected  to  find  you  at  Enoombe,  when  we 
:amc  here,  Captain  Vivian,"  she  said. 


G4  CLEVE    HALL. 

''  You  thout!;ht  I  should  keep  farther  from  the  Gcieral's 
quarters.  Well,  perhaps  it  might  be  just  as  well  if  I  did  ;  but 
there's  something  in  the  sight  of  old  ocean  after  all  which 
tempts  a  man,  Avhen  he's  been  used  to  it;  and  the  Grange  was 
empty,  and  so  llonald  and  I  have  e'en  taken  up  our  quarters 
then^" 

*'  llonald  is  as  fond  of  the  sea  as  yourself,"  remarked 
Bertha. 

''  Perhaps  he  may  be,  but  he's  a  strange  fellow  is  Ronald ; 
one  never  knows  what  he  will  be  at." 

"  His  taste  for  the  sea  was  a  taste  from  infancy,"  said 
Bertha.     "  I  remember " 

He  interrupted  her  quickly  :  "  Yes,  yes.  You  arc  right; 
he  always  had  a  taste  for  it;  but  he's  too  old.'' 

"  For  the  naval  service  ?  yes,"  replied  Bertha,  timidly. 

"  For  any  service,  unless  I  choose  it ;"  and  in  an  instant 
an  angiy  flush  overspread  Captain  Vivian's  face,  whilst  he 
muttered  to  himself,  '^  Am  I  never  to  be  left  alone  ?" 

Bertha  stood  her  ground.  "  "VVe  have  not  met  for  so  long, 
Captain  Vivian,"  she  said,  "that  you  must  forgive  me  if  I 
touch  upon  unwelcome  subjects." 

"  I  don't  know  what  long  acquaintance  it  requires  to  learn 
that  interference  must  always  be  unwelcome/'  he  replied. 
"  But  you  are  one  of  Mr.  Lester's  apt  scholars,  Miss  Bertha." 

"  My  interference,  if  you  call  it  such,"  replied  Bertha, 
"  dates  long  before  my  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Lester." 

"  Then  it  is  the  old  story,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  should  have 
thought  that  years  might  have  taught  you  wisdom." 

"I  trust  they  have  in  some  measure,"  replied  Bertha; 
"  but  they  have  not  taught  me  that  there  is  either  wisdom  or 
goodness  in  looking  with  indifference  upon  the  child  of " 

He  interrupted  her,  and  his  manner  changed  into  patroniz- 
ing indifference. 

"  We  won't  quarrel,  Miss  Bertha ;  we  have  had  enough  of 
that  in  our  day.  Since  we  are  neighbors,  we  may  as  well  be 
friendly  when  we  meet." 

"  Quite  as  well,"  said  Bertha;  "if  we  are  to  meet  at  all." 

He  seemed  a  little  piqued,  and  answered  hastily,  "  Oh ! 
then  you  had  thought  of  cutting  me,  had  you  ?  The  way  of 
the  world  ;  off  with  old  friends,  and  on  with  new." 

"  I  could  not  have  supposed  that  you  would  look  upon  me 
as  a  friend,"  replied  Bertha.  "It  was  scarcely  the  light  iu 
which  I  was  rcsiarded  in  former  times." 


CLEVE    HALL.  Q5 

He  bit  Ills  lip.  "  I  didn't  mean, — of  course,  I  never  sup. 
posed  you  would  bear  malice." 

"I  have  nothing  to  bear  malice  for,  Captain  Vivian,"  re- 
plied Bertha  ;  ''  I  was  not  the  pei'sou  to  suffer."  And  there 
was  a  stress  upon  the  pronoun  which  made  the  coarse,  rough 
man,  whom  she  addressed,  shrink  as  with  the  touch  of  some 
sudden  pain. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  are  so  fond  of  going  back  to  those 
old  times,"  he  said.    "  Why  can't  we  meet,  and  forget  them  ?" 

"  Because,"  replied  Bertha,  boldly,  "  they  are  the  only 
grounds  upon  which  our  acquaintance  can  possibly  rest.  You 
must  be  fully  aware,  Captain  Vivian,  that  if  we  were  now,  for 
the  first  time,  living  in  the  same  village,  we  could  never  be 
anything  to  each  other  but  strangers." 

''  Too  proud  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  which  yet  had  very 
little  pride  in  it.     "Aiming  at  the  Hall,  I  sujjpose?" 

"  Aiming  at  nothing,  I  hope,"  replied  Bertha,  as  she  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  him,  till  his  sank  beneath  their  gaze ;  "  but  the 
man  who  has  brought  exile,  and  disgrace,  and  poverty  into  a 
family,  can  little  expect  to  be  received  as  a  friend." 

His  face  became  deadly  pale :  twice  he  tried  to  speak,  and 
twice  the  words  seemed  kept  back  by  some  violent  inward 
agitation. 

"  I  know  more  than  I  once  did,  you  see,"  continued  Bertha. 

"  Ay !    from    that   meddling,    false-hearted "   he   was 

going  to  add  a  string  of  violent  epithets  to  Mr.  Lester's  name, 
l>ut  Bertha  prevented  him.  Her  cold,  quiet,  womanly  dignity 
seemed  to  have  a  strange  power  over  him. 

"  Mr.  Lester  is  my  friend,"  she  said.  "  If  he  can  be  men- 
tioned in  terms  of  respect,  well;  if  not,  this  is  the  first  and 
last  time,  Captain  Vivian,  that  I  will  hear  his  name  from  your 
lips." 

"  And  what  has  he  been  telling  you,  then  T' 

The  question  was  put  anxiously,  and  with  a  certain  tone  of 
deference. 

"  It  must  be  only  painful,  and  quite  unnecessary,  for  me 
to  repeat  what  you  already  know  so  well,"  replied  Bertha. 
"  It  is  sufiicient,  that  after  having  assisted  to  ruin  the  pros- 
pc'cts  of  the  father,  you  yet  have  it  in  your  power  to  show 
npcntance  by  your  conduct  to  the  son.  E<lward  Vivian's  fate 
Would  have  been  very  different  from  what  it  is  but  for  your 
influence.  Clement  may  be  restored  to  all  that  his  father  has 
lust,  if  only  you  will  not  stand  in  his  way." 


6G  CLEVE    HALL. 

"I  stand  in  his  way!"  and  tlio  laui^li  yv]nc\\  accompanied 
the  words  made  Bertha  shrink.  "  Why,  one  would  think  I 
was  the  oUl  General's  ally,  likely  to  come  over  him  with  smooth 
words.     How  can  I  stand  in  the  boy's  way '(" 

"  You  are  the  General's  enemy/'  replied  Bertha. 

"  And  if  I  am,  what's  that  to  any  one  but  myself?" 

"  It  may  be  very  much  to  Clement,  if  his  grandfather 
thinks  that  he  is  your  friend,"  replied  Bertha. 

"Tut,  tut!"  he  exclaimed,  iiupatiently ;  "this  is  all  idle 
talking,  Miss  Bertha.  The  boy's  a  fine  fellow  enough,  and 
Jikes  free  air  and  sea  breezes;  and  Ilonald  luus  taken  to  him — 
and  whcre's  the  harm?" 

_<' Merely,''  repUed  Bertha,  coldly,  "that  Bonald's  friend- 
ship is  a  sin  in  General  Vivian's  eyes." 

"  But  if  it  is  no  sin  in  reality,  since  you  will  harp  upon  tlie 
old  question  of  conscience  ?" 

"  It  must  be  sin  to  Clement,"  replied  Bertha,  "when  it  is 
against  the  wishes  of  all  his  friends." 

"  What  is  that  to  me  ?  let  his  friends  take  care  of  him." 

"  His  friends  have  very  little  power,  as  I  suspect  you  know 
full  well  by  this  time,  Captain  Vivian,"  replied  Bertha.  "  My 
mother  is  too  infirm,  and  has  indulged  him  too  much  for  years. 
Mr.  Lester  is  most  kind,  but  he  has  only  authority  over  his 
lessons.  Clement  is  left,  most  unhappily,  to  himself;  and  his 
whole  success  in  life  depends  upon  the  favor  of  his  grandfather. 
Is  it  a  very  hard  thing  to  ask  that  you  should  not  interfere  to 
mar  his  prospects  ?" 

"  I  have  told  you  before,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  there  is  no 
interference  on  my  part.  It  is  Ronald's  doing,  if  there  is  any- 
thing of  the  kind;  but  I  don't  see  it :  they  are  together  every 
now  and  then." 

"And  not  alone,"  continued  Bertha;  "Ronald's  compa- 
nions become  Clement's  also — Gofi",  for  instance." 

"  Pshaw  !  if  you  are  as  squeamish  as  that,  you  must  needs 
shut  your  boy  up  in  a  glass  case.  But  I'll  say  one  thing  to 
you,  jMiss  Bertha;  you  have  shown  me  a  bit  of  your  mind, 
you  mast  needs  let  me  show  you  a  bit  of  mine.  Fair  play's 
a  jewel.  Don't  you  interfere  with  my  game,  if  you  want  me 
not  to  interfere  with  yours.  Remember  my  boy  is  not  to  be 
preached  over  into  a  milksop,  and  his  head  filled  with  fancies 
of  merchant  service,  and  all  that  nonsense.  Ronald  will  be 
v;'hat  I  choose  to  make  him ;  and  I  give  you  warning,  that  if 


CLEVE    HALL.  67 

there's  any  attempt  to  turn  liini  another  way,  I'll  be  your 
match." 

Bertha  changed  color,  but  the  determined  lines  of  her 
mouth  became  more  marked,  as  she  said,  "  Captain  Vivian,  you 
maj  threaten,  but  you  will  not  frighten  me ;  the  promise  which 
I  made  to  Marian  on  her  death-bed  will  be  kept,  God  helping 
mc,  before  all  others." 

A  storm  of  fearful  passion  was  visible  in  Captain  Vivian's 
dark  countenance,  but  13ertha  regarded  him  with  perfect  calm- 
ness ;  and  as  again  her  searching  gaze  rested  on  him,  the  ex- 
clamation which  was  about  to  escape  his  lips  was  checked,  and 
muttering  between  his  teeth,  "  Do  your  Mali,  and  take  the  con- 
sequences/' he  turned  from  her  without  another  word. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THREE  days  had  passed  since  the  storm.  The  weather 
had  become  very  warm ;  it  would  have  been  oppressive 
but  for  the  soft  air,  just  suflBcient  to  stir  the  foliage  of  the  trees 
before  the  windows  of  JMildred  Vivian's  apartment.  The 
flower-beds,  disordered  by  the  rush  of  the  tempest,  were  again 
restored  to  their  usual  appearance  of  trim  neatness ;  the  lawn 
was  newly  mown,  and  Mildred,  lying  on  her  sofa  by  the  open 
window,  appeared  to  be  thoroughly  enjoying  the  luxurious 
repose  of  the  morning. 

Yes,  thoroughly  enjoying  it;  no  one  could  have  doubted 
that,  notwithstanding  the  thin,  drawn  look  of  her  features, 
their  habitual  expression  of  bodily  pain.  She  was  reading,  or 
perhaps,  more  strictly  speaking,  intending  to  read  ;  for  although 
a  book  lay  open  before  her,  her  eyes  wandered  chiefly  amongst 
(he  flowers,  or  pursued  the  course  of  the  buzzing  insects  and 
fluttering  birds,  following  them  as  they  rose  in  the  air,  and 
resting  with  an  expression  of  longing  thankfulness  ujwn  the 
depth  of  the  blue  heavens.  Such  extreme  quietness  as  there 
was  in  that  secluded  garden  at  Cleve  Hall  might  have  been 
very  trying  to  many,  even  on  a  brilliant  summer's  day;  but  it 
was  part  of  Mildred's  home,  associated  with  all  that  she  had 
ever  loved ;  and  where  others  would  have  dwelt  mournfully  on 


68  CLEVE    HALL. 

past  j(jys,  she  had  tauglit  herself  to  Ic  happy,  and  to  .seize  on 
present  ble.ssings. 

A  little  door,  leading  into  the  more  public  part  of  the 
grounds,  opened,  and  a  tall,  gray-haired  man,  Avho  had  certaiidy 
reached,  and  probably  passed,  the  age  of  seventy,  entered  the 
garden.  He  walked  proudly,  and  with  tolerable  firmne.ss,  and 
the  stick  which  he  carried  was  no  support  to  him;  his  head 
was  raised,  his  chin  slightly  elevated — perhaps  that  added  to 
the  self-possessed,  self-dependent  look,  which  was  the  first 
impression  conveyed  by  his  handsome  features.  For  he  was 
strikingly  handsome — the  forehead  high,  the  nose  just  suffi- 
ciently aquiline  for  dignity,  the  dark  blue  eyes  quick  and 
piercing,  the  mouth — the  real  character  was  inscribed  there ; 
but  we  will  leave  it  for  words  to  tell. 

lie  sat  down  by  Mildred's  sofa,  slowly — he  had  been  su/- 
fering  from  rheumatism — and  he  bit  his  lips  as  if  in  pain ;  but 
Mildred  did  not  ask  him  how  he  was,  but  waited  for  him  to 
break  the  silence. 

"  I  have  been  round  the  park,  Slildrcd ;  the  storm  has  dono 
a  good  deal  of  mischief." 

"  "  Has  it  indeed,  Sir  ?     I  thought  thci'e  were  no  trees  blown 
down." 

"  Who  told  you  that?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"  I  forget,  sir,  wh-o ;  but  I  understood  it." 

"Then  they  deceived  you,  Mildred;  purposely,  perhaps," 
he  added  in  an  under-tone.  "  The  Great  Black  Oak,  of  live 
hundred  years'  standing,  is  down,  child.  But  what  does  it 
matter?"  He  tried  to" laugh.  "It  only  follows  the  family 
fortunes." 

"  I  hoped  it  was  to  be  the  tj'pc  of  their  remaining  firm," 
?aid  Mildred,  assuming  a  lighter  tone;  "but  it  is  best  not  to 
think  about  such  things." 

"Do  you  never  think  about  them,  then?"  he  continued, 
regarding  her  with  an  expression  of  tenderness,  which  was  av 
variance  with  the  accent  of  his  voice. 

"  Sometimes  I  do,  dear  Sir;  but  I  don't  think  it  is  wise." 

"  No,  child  ;  no,  it  is  not  at  all  wise  :  but  I  thought  I  would 
tell  you  myself,  lest  you  should  fret." 

"  It  was  very  kind,"  replied  Mildred,  in  an  absent  tone; 
then  breaking  suddenly  into  another  subject,  she  asked,  "Did 
you  go  beyond  the  park.  Sir  ?" 

"No;  I  meant  to  go;  but  my  back  was  stiff,  so  I  turned 
back ;— Prince  was  troublesome,  too." 


CLEVE    HALL.  69 

"Prince  has  not  exercise  enougli,  Sir;  I  ivisli  you  would 
let  Groves  take  him  out  regularly." 

"  And  throw  him  dowu  ;  that  won't  do,  Mildred.  No,  if 
Prince  grows  too  strong  for  his  master,  he  must  seek  another." 

"  I  hope  not.  Sir;  you  wouldn't  bear  to  part  with  him." 

"  Would  I  not  ?"  A  smile  of  resolution  almost  forbidding 
crossed  his  face;  'Hheu,  Mildred,  you  know  nothing  about 
me." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  you  would  not  do  anything,  or  part  with 
anything,  that  you  considered  right,  Sir,"  began  Mildred. 

He  caught  up  her  words — "Considered  right,  that  is  what 
you  always  say ;  is  right — it  ought  to  be." 

Mildred  was  silent. 

"  Is  right,"  he  continued,  speaking  his  own  thoughts  rather 
than  addressing  her;  "I  set  off  in  life  with  that  motto,  and  I 
have  followed  it.  Who  can  have  done  so  more  ?  who  can  have 
sacrificed  more  ? — eh  !  Mildred  ?" 

"Certainly,  Sir;  no  one  can  doubt  your  principle,"  replied 
Mildred,  keeping  her  eyes  upon  the  work  which  she  had  taken 
up  since  her  father  entered. 

"  Only  it  is  a  principle  you  don't  agree  with.  What 
woman  ever  did  ?" 

"  Women's  feelings  carry  them  away,  so  it  is  said,"  replied 
Mildred  with  a  smile.  "  But,  my  dear  father,  why  should  we 
go  over  the  old  ground  ?" 

"  Well !  as  you  say,  why  shoiild  we  ?"  and  he  sighed  deeply. 

Mildred  laid  her  thin,  white  ha-nd  upon  the  scanty  gray 
hairs  which  covered  his  head,  and  as  she  fondly  smoothed 
them,  said,  "  If  I  could  make  you  listen  to  my  principle  in- 
stead of  to  your  own,  I  should  ask  such  a  great  favor."  He 
would  not  tarn  to  look  at  her,  but  he  suffered  her  to  kiss  his 
forehead  ;  and  she  added,  in  a  tone  so  low  that  it  was  almost 
a  whisper,  "  Would  it  vex  you  very  much  if  Ella  were  to 
come  and  see  me  'i" 

Very  striking  it  was,  the  change  which  passed  over  his 
face.  Its  expression  had  been  gentle  and  sad  the  moment 
before,  gentle  notwithstanding  the  unyielding  determination 
which  was  described  by  the  lines  of  his  mouth,  and  which 
broke  forth  in  the  tones  of  his  voice ;  but  even  as  Mildred 
spoke,  it  was  gone,  conquered,  as  it  would  have  seemed,  by 
some  sudden  mental  suffering  which  he  could  not  control,  yet 
against  which  he  struggled  with  all  the  intensity  of  an  un- 
governable will. 


■^0  CLEVE   HALL. 

IMildiL'il  imisi  have  known  tlic  effect  licr  words  would  liavc, 
yet  she  .seeiuetl  ncitlier  to  watch  nor  wait,  nor  be  anxious  for 
his  reply.  She  took  up  her  work,  and  tried  to  thread  her 
needle,  but  her  hand  was  unsteady;  the  cotton  rolled  upon 
the  floor,  and  she  bent  over  the  side  of  the  sofa  to  pick  it  up. 
He  saw  her  movement,  and  stooped  too,  but  it  was  an  ellbrt ; 
iiiul  as  he  raised  himself  again,  he  said  bitterly, 

"  Your  father  is  an  old  man,  Mildred.  AVait  but  a  little 
while,  and  you  may  do  as  you  wish  without  asking." 

"  It  will  be  too  late  to  have  any  wish  then,  Sii-,"  said  Mil- 
dred  quietly. 

He  leaned  back  in  the  arm-chair,  resting  his  hand  upon 
the  stick  which  he  laid  across  it.  His  tone  was  still  con- 
strained as  he  said,  "  How  long  have  you  had  this  new 
fancy  ?" 

"  It  is  a  very  old  one,  dear  Sir,"  replied  Mildred  :  '<  I  can 
never  see  the  children  by  going  to  them." 

"And  their  grandmother  knew  that;  crafty  old  woman 
that  she  is  !" 

"But  the  children,  Sir,"  said  Mildred,  humbly;  "must 
they  suffer  V 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Mildred" — General  Vivian  rose  from 
his  chair  with  an  energy  which  for  the  moment  conquered  the 
infirmities  of  age — "there  is  no  more  cunning,  designing  old 
fo.x  in  England  than  that  woman ;  but  I'll  outwit  her." 

"  We  don't  like  her,  certainly.  Sir,  either  of  us,"  said  Mil- 
dred ;  "  but  then  so  much  the  more  reason,  perhaps,  for  tak- 
ing the  children  from  her :  don't  you  think  so?" 

"  And  so  give  her  cause  to  triumph  over  us  !  What  made 
her  bring  them  here  but  the  determination  to  thrust  them 
upon  me  ?  No,  Mildred,  let  them  alone — Campbells  and 
Vivians — Campbells  and  Vivians,"  he  repeated,  muttering  the 
words  ;   "  it  can't  be ;  it  wasn't  meant  to  be." 

"But  the  children  are  Vivians,  dear  Sir,"  said  Mildred.' 
She  was  afraid  then,  for  she  looked  up  at  him  stealthily. 
"  Yes,"  he  said,  pondering  upon  the  words ;  and  Mildred  heard 
him  add,  as  he  turned  away  from  her,  "  and  so  are  others." 

"  Clement  is  very  young,"  observed  Mildred,  replying  to 
his  thoughts,  rather  than  his  words. 

"  And  therefore  the  more  sure  a  victim,"  he  exclaimed, 
impetuously ;  the  volcano,  which  had  been  working  secretly, 
bursting  forth.  "  Am  I  blind,  Mildred  ?  Can  I  not  see  the 
boy's  course  as  plainly  as  if  it  were  written  in  letters  of  fire 


CLEVE    HALL.  71 

before  ine  ?  And  is  all  to  be  sacrificed ;  all  for  which  I  have 
striven  iu  life — the  inheritance  of  my  ancestors ;  the  good  of 
mv  people ;  the  honorable  name,  to  attain  which  I  have  pitic- 
tised  the  self-denial  of  years  ?  But  let  it  go,"  he  continued, 
moodily;  "since  even  you,  Mildred,  cannot  value  it."  He 
moved  to  the  window,  and  stood  there,  listening,  it  might  have 
seemed,  to  the  note  of  the  wood-pigeon,  and  the  plashing  of 
the  fountain  in  the  garden. 

Mildred's  hands  were  clasped  together,  possibly  in  suffer- 
ing, but  more  probably  in  prayer.  Hers  was  not  a  face  to 
betray  much  internal  agitation — perhaps  she  had  been  too 
much  accustomed  to  these  scenes  to  be  startled  or  deeply 
pained  by  them — but  something  of  the  hopeful  expression 
passed  from  her  face  as,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  seconds,  she 
said,  very  slowly,  "  I  can  see  the  risk,  dear  Sir;  but  I  can  see 
the  duty  of  the  children  also." 

"  I  will  do  my  duty  by  them,"  he  replied,  quickly.  "  I 
will  help  the  boy.  Let  him  go  to  college  :  I  will  support  him 
there.  Let  him  show  that  there  is  yet  something  left  iu  the 
Vivian  blood  which  I  need  not  blush  to  own,  and  I  may  even 
do  more.  And  the  girls  shall  not  want,  Campbells  though 
they  are — Campbells  in  eveiy  look  and  motion — they  shall 
have  aid  too,  as  and  when  I  see  fit.  But  it  shall  not  be  ex- 
torted from  me,  jMildred  :  it  shall  be  at  my  own  time.  They 
shall  see  that  nothing  has  been  gained,  rather  that  everything 
has  been  lost,  by  thrusting  them  upon  me." 

"  It  was  a  great  mistake  of  Mrs.  Campbell,  almost  wrong 
indeed,"  said  Mildred ;  "  but  we  only  give  her  a  just  cause 
for  complaint,  so  at  least  it  seems  to  me,  by  neglecting  our  own 
share  of  duty  to  the  children." 

"  I  don't  acknowledge  the  duty,"  he  replied,  sternly. 

Mildred  hesitated.  "  Then,  dear  Sir,  if  not  from  duty  to 
them,  at  least  from  kindness  to  me.  It  would  be  such  a 
great" — satisfaction  she  was  going  to  say,  but  the  word  was 
c'nanged  into  "  pleasure."  She  looked  at  him  pleadingly,  but 
liis  head  was  turned  away;  he  did  not  or  would  not  hear. 

"  There  is  too  much  draught  for  you  here,"  he  said, 
abruptly ;  "  they  must  move  your  sofa  back."  He  put  his 
hiind  out  to  touch  the  bell.  Mildred  stopped  him  :  "  Only  one 
moment,  dear  Sir;  indeed  it  won't  hurt  me." 

He  looked  impatient,  and  his  eye  wandered  to  the  door, 
which  was  open.  A  light  breeze  mshed  through  the  room, 
nnd  paitiully  blew  aside  a  green  silk  curtain  which  hung  at  the 


72  CLEVE    HALL. 

lower  end.  The  odgo  of  tlie  curtain  was  caught  by  ll)C  point 
of  an  old  oak  chair,  and  the  picture  which  it  covered  was  dis- 
})laycd  to  view.  It  represented  three  figures :  one  was  Mil- 
dred, kneeling  against  a  gardeu  seat,  her  arm  thrown  around 
the  neck  of  a  young  girl,  who  was  seated  with  a  book  in  her 
lap,  which  both  seemed  to  be  studying.  They  were  very 
unlike — Mildred's  face  so  thoughtful  even  in  its  youthful  hap- 
piness; her  sister's — for  it  was  evident  they  were  sisters, — so 
brilliant,  intelligent,  inquisitive,  joyous,  and  with  something 
in  it  of  her  father's  commanding  spirit,  to  which  Mildred,  as 
she  clung  to  her,  seemed  only  too  willing  to  submit.  Behind 
them  stood  a  boy,  apparently  some  years  older,  tall,  erect, 
noble-looking;  with  an  open  forehead,  the  slightly  aquiline 
nose,  and  piercing  eye  which  marked  him  for  the  son  of 
General  Vivian  ;  but  also  with  the  full  lip  and  self-indulgent 
yielding  outline  of  the  small  mouth,  which  showed  that  in 
some  points,  and  those  perhaps  the  most  essential  for  success 
and  honor  in  life,  the  father  and  the  child  could  never  be 
one. 

It  was  scarcely  a  glance  which  General  Vivian  cast  at  the 
picture;  but  it  made  Mildred's  cheek  almost  livid,  whilst  she 
watched  him,  as  he  walked  to  the  end  of  the  room,  and  deli- 
berately replaced  the  curtain  and  removed  the  oak  chair,  so 
that  the  same  thing  might  not  happen  a  second  time,  and  then 
returned  to  seat  himself  once  more  by  her  side,  his  counte- 
nance perhaps  a  shade  more  stern  than  it  was  before.  Mildred 
did  not  wait  for  an  observation  from  him.  She  spoke  hur- 
riedly, apparently  saying  what  she  scarcely  intended  or  wished 
to  say. 

''  Ella  should  be  very  little  in  your  way,  dear  Sir." 

A  pause,  and  silence — this  time  not  wilful :  the  old  man's 
eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground,  his  thoughts  perhaps  wan- 
dering back  into  far  distant  years.  He  did  not  catch  her 
words.     A  dog's  bark  was  heard. 

"  It  must  be  Clement,"  said  Mildred,  in  a  timid  voice. 

General  Vivian  started. 

"  Do  as  you  will,  child ;"  and  he  stood  up  to  leave  her, 
just  as  Clement,  rushing  through  the  garden,  entered  by  the 
window. 

"Clement,  don't  you  see  your  grandfather?"  Mildred 
spoke  reprovingly,  for  the  boy's  first  impulse  was  to  rush  up  to 
her  sofa;  and  a  smile  of  displeasure  curled  General  Vivian's 
lips  as  he  observed  the  hasty  self-recollection,  mingled  with 


CLEVE    HALL.  73 

foar,  which  made  the  blood  rise  in  Clement's  cheek,  whilst, 
shyly  approaching,  he  muttered  an  apology.  The  excuse  wan 
received  coldly,  and  Clement's  color  deepened,  and  he  looked 
at  the  window,  wishing  evidently  to  make  his  escape. 

''Reverence  to  elders  is  not  one  of  the  lessons  taught  in 
modern  education,"  said  General  Vivian,  addressing  Mildred, 
'•  so  we  must  not,  I  suppose,  expect  too  much." 

Mildred  smiled.  "  Clement  is  not  generally  so  forgetful, 
my  dear  father ;  but  you  did  not  think  of  finding  any  one 
here  except  me,  Clement,  did  you  ?" 

"  I  thought  Mr.  Lester  might  be  here,"  replied  Clement,  a 
little  sulkily ;  "  and  I  was  going  to  ask  him  to  order  me  some 
fishing-flies  in  Cleve." 

"  He  is  going  over  there,  is  he  ?"  asked  Mildred  in  a  tone 
of  interest. 

"  Yes,  so  he  said,  to  see  Mr.  Bruce." 

''Is  that  the  gentleman  who  was  saA'ed  in  the  storm?" 

"  Yes,  the  man  whom  Ronald  saved,"  said  Clement. 

There  was  a  quick  flash  in  General  Vivian's  eye,  and  he  sat 
down.     Mildred  went  on  : — 

"  And  so  you  want  some  fishing-flies,  do  you,  Clement  ?" 

"  Yes,  like  some  that  Goflf  got  for  Ronald :  he  means  to 
show  me  how  to  use  them." 

"Who!  Goflf?"  inquired  Mildred,  quickly. 

"  Oh  !  no,  not  he ;  Ronald.  There  used  to  be  famous  sport 
it  the  last  place  he  was  at,  so  he's  quite  up  in  it.  Goft'  laughs 
at  that  sober  kind  of  work,  and  says  there's  no  fun  like  that  of 
catching  fish  at  night,  with  lights  on  a  river,  which  is  never 
done  here." 

"  That  is  poacher's  work  very  often,"  said  Mildred. 

"  I  don't  know  where  the  right  is  of  preserving  fish  for 
one  man  more  than  another,"  replied  Clement.  "GofF 
says " 

Mildred  internipted  him,  "Why,  Clement,  one  would 
think  that  Gofi"  was  your  tutor." 

Clement  laughed.  "  Well,  he  is  a  kind  of  tutor  in  some 
things ;  he  and  Captain  Vivian  arc  such  knowing  fellows ;  up 
to  so  many  things." 

"  They  are  up  to  teaching  you  slang,"  said  Mildred.  "  I 
wifjh  they  may  do  nothing  worse.  What  does  Mr.  Lester  say 
t^  their  instruction  ?" 

"  Oh  !  he  hasn't  much  to  do  with  it  so  lon<r  as  I  am  in  fci 

I  "  ° 

hours. 

•4 


74  CLEVi:    HALL. 

Mildred  looked  at  her  father,  wlio  was  leaning  back  in  tlio 
arm  chair,  with  his  eye  fixed  upon  the  carpet. 

"  Ilardnian,  the  ,o;amekecper,  fishes  too,"  she  said,  timidly, 
addressing  General  Vivian ;  "  he  might  be  a  better  master  than 
Pionald.     Don't  you  think  so,  Sir?" 

"  Clement  chooses  his  own  friends,"  was  the  reply. 

"Not  quite,  I  think,"  replied  Mildred;  "he  would  not 
wish  to  have  any  friends  whom  you  might  disapprove." 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  friends,"  said  Clement ;  "  I  only 
want  some  one  to  go  fishing  with,  and  put  me  in  the  way 
of  it." 

"  And  if  Ilardman  could  tench  you  as  well  as  Ronald,  you 
would  bo  as  well  contented  to  have  him,"  observed  IMildrcd. 

Clement  looked  annoyed,  and  muttered  something  about 
Ilardman  being  a  bore. 

"Of  course,"  observed  General  Vivian,  coldly,  "it  is 
Ronald's  society  which  is  the  point.  I  have  told  you  so  before," 
he  added,  speaking  to  Mildred. 

"  Grandpapa  doesn't  wish  you  to  make  friends  with 
Ronald,"  said  Mildred. 

"  I  have  no  one  else  to  be  friends  with,"  replied  Clement 
quickly.  lie  did  not  intend  to  be  impertinent,  but  he  was 
irritated,  and  his  tone  was  certainly  wanting  in  respect. 

Mildred  looked  very  pained.  "  Oh,  Clement !"  and  Clement 
in  a  moment  recovered  himself. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,  I  didn't  mean  any  harm;  only 
it's  dull  going  out  alone,  and  not  much  better  with  Hardman." 

"  And  so  you  choose  IMr.  Ronald  Vivian  for  a  companion. 
I  warn  you  once  for  all,  my  boy" — and  General  Vivian  leaned 
forward,  and  fixed  his  eager  eye  upon  his  grandson  with  an 
expression  of  authority  beneath  which  Clement  actually 
quailed:  "There  are  two  roads  before  you, — one  leads  to 
Heaven,  the  other — I  leave  you  to  guess  where ; — if  you  want 
to  travel  that  way,  follow  Ronald  Vivian." 

"It's  not  true,"  exclaimed  Clement,  impetuously;  but  he 
was  stopped  by  Mildred. 

"Clement,  Clement,  remember  he  is  your  grandfather; 
remember.     Dear  Sir  !  he  doesn't  mean  it." 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Mildred,  I  understand  him  quite.  He 
has  had  my  warning,  let  him  attend  to  it." 

General  Vivian  left  the  room ;  Clement  knelt  on  one  knee 
by  Mildred's  sofa. 

"Aunt  Mildred,  why  does  he  speak  so?     Why  docs  ho 


CLEVE    HALL.  7o 

liurt  me  so  ?  "What  makes  mm  say  such  cruel  things  of 
Rouald  r 

Mildred  put  her  haud  before  his  mouth  :  "  Clement,  you 
are  talking  of  your  grandfather." 

He  drew  back  and  stood  up  proudly :  '^  If  he  were  twenty 
times  my  grandfather,  what  he  says  of  Ronald  is  false." 

Mildred  did  not  speak;  a  pink  spot,  the  flush  of  mental 
agitation,  burned  upon  her  cheeks. 

Clement's  tone  softened;  "Aunt  Mildred,  you  know  that 
it  is  false." 

''  No,  Clement" — Mildred's  voice  was  low,  and  her  breath 
came  with  difficulty;  "it  is  true, — for  you  wilfully  to  follow 
Ronald  Vivian  would  lead  you  to  destruction,  for  it  would  be 
disobedience." 

"  But  when  grandpopa  is  unjust,  unfair — when  he  doesn't 
know  Ronald — when  he  doesn't  even  speak  to  him !  Why 
Mr.  Lester  allows  that  there  is  the  spirit  of  a  hero  in  Rouald, 
if  it  could  but  be  brought  out." 

"  But  you  cannot  be  the  person  to  do  it,  Clement,"  said 
Mildred,  gently. 

"I  don't  sec  that;  I  am  more  of  a  gentleman.  I  can  tell 
him  a  good  many  things  which  he  never  knew  of,  and  he  often 
anks  my  opinion ;"  a  gleam  of  self-gratulation  passed  over 
Clement's"  face  as  he  spoke. 

Mildred  laid  her  hand  upon  his  :  "  Dear  Clement,  at  3'our 
age,  you  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  yourself  straight;  it  is 
better  not  to  think  of  others." 

"  But  Ronald  is  not  what  they  say,"  exclaimed  Clement, 
shrinking  from  the  implied  censure;  "  if  he  were " 

"  That  is  nothing  to  the  point ;  at  your  age  there  is  only 
one  course  open  to  you — to  .obey :"  and  as  Clement's  expres- 
sive mouth  showed  how  his  spirit  rebelled  against  the  word, 
Jlildred  added,  "  I  know  it  seems  very  hard  to  do  so  without 
comprehending  why." 

"Yes,  it  is  very  hard.  Aunt  Mildred;  and  no  one  will  talk 
to  me  about  things  plainly,  and  I  hate  mysteries.  Won't  you 
cell  me  what  it  all  means  V 

Mildred  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  :  "  I  think 
you  must  know  it  all.  Captain  Vivian  and  your  father  were 
friends  once ;  but  it  wovdd  have  been  better  for  them  if  they 
had  not  been.  Captain  Vivian  led  your  father  to  do  things 
which  your  grandfather  disapproved,  and  he  was  very  angry, 
uiid, " 


7G  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  Disinherited  liiiii,"  paid  Clemont. 

''Yes."  The  word  was  uttered  very  abruptly,  and  Mildied 
continued :  "  Your  grandfather  is  afraid  now  that  Ilonald 
may  have  the  same  intiuence  over  you." 

"  And  so  he  is  unjust  to  him  !"  exclaimed  Clomoiit. 

Mildred  smiled,  and  pointed  to  a  scat.  ''Clement,  may  I 
give  you  a  lecture  ?" 

Clement  sat  down  half  moodily. 

"That  was  just  as  your  father  used  to  look  in  the  old 
days,"  she  continued,  with  a  mixture  of  sadness  and  playful- 
ness. "I  used  to  lecture  him  sometimes,  Clement,  though  he 
was  much  older  than  I  was." 

There  was  something  indescribably  winning  in  her  tone, 
and  Clement's  face  relaxed.  "  I  hate  lectures,  Aunt  Mildred," 
he  said,  "  and  I  have  such  a  number." 

"  From  Mr.  Lester  ?" 

''Oh,  I  don't  mind  his;  but  Aunt  Bertha  is  at  me  from 
morning  till  night,  and  I  can't  stand  it.  It  makes  me  say 
sharp  things  when  I  don't  wish  it." 

"  And  then  she  is  vexed,  and  lectures  a  little  more  ?"  asked 
Mildred. 

"  Yes,  and  then  I  reply,  and  then  she  won't  speak,  and  so 
we  are  at  daggers  drawn.  Oh,  Aunt  Mildred,  I  wish  I  had 
men  to  deal  with.     I  can't  abide  women." 

Mildred  laughed. 

"I  can't  bear  them  in  that  way,  —  that  lecturing  way,'" 
continued  Clement;  "  they  do  say  such  a  great  deal." 

"  And  the  young  gentlemen  do  so  many  things  to  deserve 
the  great  deal,"  replied  Mildred.  "  But  I  can  really  under- 
stand, Clement,  that  it  is  trying  to  be  kept  under  a  woman's 
control ;  only — you  see  I  am  not  going  to  acquit  you  quite — I 
think  it  is  the  old  question  of  obedience,  anyhow." 

"  I  could  obey  as  well  as  any  one,  if  they  would  only  bo 
rational,"  observed  Clement. 

"  That  is  to  say,  rational  according  to  your  notions,"  replied 
Mildred.  "  I  don't  exactly  see  how  you  would  be  obeying 
any  one  but  yourself  then." 

Clement  colored  a  little,  and  said  quickly,  "  Well,  but 
that's  what  every  one  must  do;  you  wouldn't  have  one  a  slave, 
without  any  judgment  of  one's  own." 

"  Sixteen  is  rather  young  to  have  a  judgment,"  said  Mildred, 
quietly.     "  But,"  she  added,  observing  that  Clement  looked 


CLEVE    HALL.  77 

blank,  '•'  at  any  rate,  having  a  judgment,  and  acting  upon  it^ 
arc  different  things." 

"That  is  .slavery  completely,"  exclaimed  Clement;  ''to 
give  up  when  one  knows  people  are  wrong." 

"  What  would  the  world  be  like,  if  it  were  not  done  ?"  in- 
quired Mildred.     "  How  would  there  be  any  law  or  order !" 

"Perhaps  in  public  matters  it  may  be  necessary,"  said 
Clement. 

"  What  is  good  in  public  matters,  must  be  good  in  pri- 
vate," continued  Mildred.  "  If  what  is  ordered  is  not  con- 
trary to  the  law  of  God,  we  are  bound  to  submit  to  lawful 
authority." 

"  And  so  I  am  to  be  kept  under  grandmamma'^  thumb  all 
my  life  !"  exclaimed  Clement,  impatiently. 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  are  to  trouble  about  all  your  life," 
replied  Mildred.  "  It  is  easy  enough,  I  think,  to  see  what 
3^our  duty  is  for  the  present." 

"  And  what  is  it?"  he  asked,  rather  sulkily. 

"  Come  when  you  are  called  ;  do  as  you  are  bid ; 
Shut  the  door  after  you,  and  you'll  never  be  chid," 

said  Mildred,  lightly. 

"  And  be  a  baby  in  leading-strings  !"  exclaimed  Clement. 

"  And  be  what  God  wishes  and  intends  you  to  be,"  said 
Mildred,  very  gravely  ;  "  that  is  the  real  point.  If  God  puts 
persons  in  authority  over  us,  He  expects  us  to  obey  them." 

"  But,  according  to  that,  no  one  would  be  at  liberty  to  go 
against  the  wishes  of  parents,  and  such  kind  of  people,"  said 
Clement ;   "  not  if  they  were  ever  so  old." 

"  There  may  be  different  claims  for  grown-up  people,"  re- 
plied Mildred  ;  "  and  they  are  competent  to  judge  about  them. 
No  law  of  a  parent  can  take  the  place  of  God's  law,  in  the 
Bible,  or  even  of  the  laws  of  your  country." 

"  Then  if  people  abuse  Ilonald,  and  say  false  things  of  him, 
and  tell  me  to  cut  him,  I  may  refuse  to  do  it,"  exclaimed  Cle- 
ment ;  "  because  they  are  untrue  and  unjust,  and  are  going 
against  the  Bible." 

Mildred  smiled  rather  sadly.  "  Oh !  Clement,  what  a 
quibble!" 

"  It's  no  quibble  ;  it  is  truth  ;"  he  replied,  triumphantly, 
looking  up  with  a  most  self-satisfied  air. 

"I  can't  argue  with  you,  Clement,  in  that  mood,"  s;ud 
Mildred ;  and  she  took  up  her  work. 


78  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  What  mood,  iVunt  Mildred  ?" 

"  A  mood  in  which  you  are  trusting  to  yourself,  and  think' 
ing  liow  clever  you  are/' 

The  color  rushed  to  his  face,  angrily,  and  he  muttered, 
*'  But  you  can't  refute  what  I  said." 

"  You  are  not  required  to  cut  llonald,  only  not  to  he  much 
with  him,"  said  Mildred.  "  If  you  were,  there  is  no  moral 
law  against  it." 

"  Charity,  I  should  have  thought,"  observed  Clement 
quickly. 

''Charity  against  the  fifth  commandment,"  replied  ^lil- 
dred ;  and  changing  her  manner  she  added,  more  lightly,  "  but 
you  are  only  arguing  for  the  sake  of  argument, — you  agree 
with  me,  I  know,  really." 

Clement's  anger  was  as  quickly  gone  really,  as  Mildred's 
vexation  was  apparently ;  he  laughed  in  reply  to  her  words, 
and  owned  that  he  did  dearly  love  an  argument. 

Mildred  shook  her  head.  ^'Wc  shall  never  agree,  there, 
Clement ;  I  can't  endure  aro-uincr." 

"Then  you  are  just  exactly  unlike  Aunt  Bertha.  She 
would  argue  from  morning  till  night." 

"  And  you  try  to  provoke  her  into  it  ?" 

"  There's  no  occasion  to  provoke  her ;  she  comes  into  it  of 
her  own  accord,  and  Ella  stands  by  and  listens." 

"  And  takes  your  part  ?" 

''Of  course,  she  is  bound  to  do  that.  In  fact,  Aunt  Mil- 
dred, it  is  the  only  thing  to  be  done  at  the  Lodge,  to  make 
any  fun.     It  is  awfully  dull  work  there  sometimes." 

Clement  yawned  audibly. 

"  You  should  find  your  way  to  the  Hall  oftener,"  said  Mil- 
dred ;  "  only  I  am  afraid  it  would  not  be  much  better  than 
'  awfully  dull'  here,  unless  you  were  to  take  it  into  your  head 
to  read  to  me." 

His  face  brightened.  "  Bead  to  you  ?  Should  you  like  it? 
I  read  to  Ella  a  great  deal,  when  we  can  get  alone,  but  when 
Aunt  Bertha  is  there  I  don't,  because  she  lectures  so  about 
the  books." 

"  Byron  and  Moore,  I  suppose  ?"  said  Mildred. 

"  How  do  you  know  that '/"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Merely  because  they  are  just  what  all  boys  of  your  ago 
like.     But,  Clement,  Aunt  Bertha  is  quite  right  about  Ella." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  he  answered,  carelessly;   "but  x\unt  Ber- 


CLEVE    HALL.  79 

tlia  preaclios  up  Hallam's  Middle  Ages,  aud  tliat  I  vow  I 
won't  read." 

"  You  niiglit  find  sometlilng  between,  perhaps,"  said  Mil- 
dred, laughing.     '^  Walter  Scott,  for  instance." 

"  Oh  !  Ella  knows  Walter  Scott  by  heart,  aud  Byron,  too, 
for  that  matter.  In  f:\ct,  she  knows  everything,  it's  my  be- 
lief. I  never  saw  such  a  girl.  I  can't  say  what  she  has  not 
learnt  by  heart ;  all  Childe  Harold,  and  the  Corsair,  and  the 
Giaour,  and  Darkness " 

"  She  should  come  aud  say  them  to  me,"  said  Mildred. 

■'  She  would  be  afraid;  she  would  think  you  thought  them 
wicked." 

"  Perhaps  I  don't  think  them  very  good,"  said  Mildred ; 
"  but  still  I  should  like  to  hear  her  say  them." 

"  That  is  another  thing  just  precisely  different  from  Aunt 
Bertha,"  said  Clement.  "  She  purses  up  her  mouth  just  so" 
• — and  he  made  an  absurd  face — "  if  Ella  ouly  quotes  a  few 
lines." 

''  I  shall  purse  up  my  mouth,"  said  IMildred,  "  if  Ella  won't 
make  me  a  few  promises  about  her  reading.  You  know,  Cle- 
ment, you  wouldn't  bear  to  see  her  grow  up  anything  but  a 
nice,  refined  person,  and  she  won't  be  refined,  if  she  is  not 
particular  about  her  reading ;  that  is  really  what  makes  Aunt 
Bertha  afraid,  and  what  I  should  be  afraid  of,  too." 

"  Ella  is  so  clever,"  said  Clement.  "  Clever  people  don't 
want  to  be  preached  to  like  dunces." 

"  Perhaps  I  think  they  want  to  be  preached  to  more ;  but, 
any  how,  Clement,  you  wouldn't  like  Ella  not  to  be  quite  a 
lady." 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not;  but  she  can't  help  herself;  she  is 
born  one." 

"  Yes,  she  would  look  like  a  lady  always ;  but  she  need  not 
be  so  in  mind.  And  one  especial  mode  in  which  people  grow 
to  be  unladylike  and  unrefined  is  by  reading  everything  which 
happens  to  come  before  them.  Young  men,  and  boys,  even, 
Jiiay  do  a  good  deal  for  their  sisters  in  that  way,  by  keeping 
things  from  them;  there  is  a  little  sermon  for  you,  Clement." 

"Ella  never  attends  to  me,"  said  Clement;  "she  looks 
ilown  upon  me.  She  is  quite  beyond  me  in  Latin  and  Greek, 
too,  for  that  matter." 

"  I  don't  think  Latin  and  Greek  have  much  to  do  with 
persons  looking  down  upon  one,"  said  Mildred;  "  Ella  doesn't 
look  down  upon  Rachel  Lester." 


80  CLEVE    HALL. 

"Aunt  MiMred  !  liow  can  you  tell  that?" 

•'  Merely  from  little  thin<i;.s  she  has  sakl.  It  is  iuconsist' 
ency  which  makes  people  look  down  upon  one." 

"  And  I  am  very  inconsistent,"  said  Clement.  He  sighed ; 
yet  at  the  very  moment  he  was  glancing  at  Mildred,  to  see  if 
she  would  not  contradict  his  words.  ''  You  think  me  eo, 
Aunt  Mildred  ?"  he  continued. 

She  looked  up  playfully.  "  I  don't  see  that  I  am  called 
upon  to  answer:     I  have  oidy  known  you  a  short  time." 

"lam  not  so  changcahle  as  Ella,"  said  Clement;  "^ sht  Is 
never  alike  for  two  hours  together." 

''  You  are  twins,"  replied  Mildred. 

"  I  always  keep  to  the  same  likings,"  continued  Clement ; — 
"  in  books,  that  is ;  and  I  have  been  tiying  to  fish  every  day 
for  a  fortnight ;  and  I  have  dinned  into  Mr.  Lester's  ears  ever 
since  we  came  here  that  I  hate  College,  and  want  to  go  to  sea, 
and  a  heap  more  things  besides.  I  am  sure  I  don't  change 
half  as  much  as  Ella.     Now,  do  I,  Aunt  Mildred  ?" 

"  I  can't  say." 

"  But  am  1  inconsistent  ?     Do  you  think  I  am  ?" 

"  You  told  me  just  now  that  you  wei'o,  very,"  said  Mildred, 
quietly. 

lie  blushed  a  little,  and  laughed  awkwardly.  ''  Well,  yes ; 
but  do  you  think  me  so?" 

There  was  a  little  satire  in  Mildred's  tone,  as  she  said, 
"  Do  you  really  wish  to  know  ?" 

The  hesitation  in  his  manner  was  scarcely  perceptible,  yet 
he  did  hesitate,  and  the  "  Yes,"  when  it  passed  his  lips,  was 
by  no  means  hearty. 

"  We  will  wait  till  another  day,"  said  Mildred. 

lie  was  piqued.  "  I  would  rather  hear  now,  if  you  please  ; 
I  don't  at  all  care  about  knowing  what  any  one  thinks  of  me." 

"  Because  you  have  such  a  good  opinion  of  yourself,"  re- 
plied Mildred,  in  a  tone  between  jest  and  earnest. 

"  I  don't  know  that.  Aunt  Mildred.  I  don't  quite  see  why 
you  should  say  it.  Mr.  Lester  never  told  me  I  had  a  good 
opinion  of  myself." 

His  tone  was  pettish,  and  Mildred  became  grave. 

"  We  will  talk  abyut  the  inconsistency  and  conceit  another 
time,  dear  Clement.  By-and-by,  perhaps,  you  will  find  om 
more  of  yourself  than  I  can  tell  you;  only  just  now  I  am 
vfraid  I  must  send  you  away,  because  I  am  a  little  tired;  but 


CLEVE   HALL.  81 

you  must  come  asain  soon  and  bring  Ella,  and  tell  me  -nhat 
success  you  have  had  in  your  fishing.'^ 

Still  he  stood  thinking-,  rather  moodily. 

"  Aunt  Mildred,  "what  must  I  do  to  give  you  a  cood  opinica 
of  me  ?" 

''  I  have  a  good  opinion  of  you,  my  dear  boy,  in  many 
ways." 

"  Yes,  but  in  all  ways.     How  can  I  make  you  respect  me  ?" 

"  A  question  requiring  a  long  answer,  Clement ;  but  one 
thing  I  should  respect  you  for  at  once,  if  you  would  put  aside 
your  own  will,  and  follow  your  Grandpapa's,  about  Ronald." 

"  Oh,  that !  but  respect  has  nothing  to  do  with  that." 

"  ]More,  perhaps,  than  you  think." 

"  But  I  can't  be  kept  under,  like  a  baby  in  long  clothes." 

"  Good  b'ye,  dear  Clement,  you  must  go ;"  and  Mildred 
held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

He  saw  she  looked  pained.  "  Well,  Aunt  Mildred,  per- 
haps, to  oblige  you,  I  might." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  boy,  give  me  a  kiss  before  you  go." 
The  bright  expression  was  gone  from  her  face,  but  that  was 
unnoticed  by  him  ;  his  thoughts  were  given  to  his  fishing-rod. 

"  You  would  find  Hardman,  the  keeper,  at  home,  if  you 
were  to  call  for  him  now,  I  suspect,"  said  Mildred. 

"Yes,  thank  you;  good  b'ye!"  and  he  nishcd  across  the 
garden,  as  hastily  as  he  had  entered  it. 

Alas  !  for  Mildred.  Was  it  not  the  same  character  ag;iin 
which  she  had  in  by-gone  years  so  anxiously  watched  ? — the 
spirit  of  self-conceit,  self-justification,  rebellion  against  the 
least  shadow  of  censure,  the  weak  pride  which  could  not  obey  ? 
And  all  with  so  fair  an  exterior !  The  look,  and  tone,  and 
manner  of  a  gentleman ;  the  refined  taste,  the  appreciation  of 
excellence,  the  poetical  heroism  of  day-dreams  ! 

She  unfastened  a  hair  bracelet,  and  looked  at  a  miniature 
in  the  clasp,  covered  by  a  gold  lid,  and  tears  dimmed  her  eyes, 
mid  fell  down  her  cheeks  as  she  murmured,  "  Father,  teach  lu^ 
linw  to  aid  him  !" 


CLEVE   HALL. 


CIIAriER  XI. 


CLE3IENT  pursued  his  way  to  tlic  keeper's  lodge,  Iniin" 
ming  snatches  of  songs,  as  h?  hurried  on  swinging  a  slick 
in  his  hand,  and  knocking  down  nettles  and  branijiles.  IIo 
was  not  disconcerted  by  anythint;  which  Mildred  had  said; 
perhaps,  it  would  have  been  well  for  him  if  he  had  been. 
Vanity,  mingled  with  self-conceit  and  self-will,  was  his 
strongest  characteristic  ;  and  now,  even  when  putting  aside 
his  own  wishes,  he  soothed  himself  with  the  thought  that  he 
was  yielding  rather  as  a  condescension  than  on  a  principle  of 
obedience.  His  grandfather  was  old  and  fidgety;  and  Mildi'cd 
was  a  woman,  and  had  a  woman's  weakness ;  and  so,  if  they 
really  did  fuss  about  his  going  out  fishing  with  Ronald,  it 
might  bo  as  well  to  give  in.  And  Clement  went  on  whistling 
merrily,  and  looking  forward  as  was  his  wont  to  pleasure  in 
one  way,  if  he  could  not  have  it  in  another.  There  was  no 
streng-th  of  resolution,  no  inwayi  principle  in  this ;  it  waa 
simply  giving  in  for  the  moment,  because  he  did  not  like  to  be 
openly  rebellious. 

Hardman  was  not  at  home ;  he  was  gone  to  Cleve,  so  his 
wife  said :  and  to  Cleve  Clement  determined  to  follow  him, — 
or  if  not  able  to  go  quite  so  far,  as  he  was  to  return  for  an 
evening  lesson  with  Mr.  Lester  at  a  certain  hour,  he  would  go 
part  of  the  way.  His  mind  was  bent  upon  this  new  fancy  of 
fishing,  and  he  could  not  bear  any  obstacle  or  delay,  and  fancied 
he  was  doing  something  to  attain  his  object  when  he  was  walk- 
ing in  the  same  direction  as  Hardman. 

"  Good  day  to  you.  Master  Clement !"  called  out  a  rough 
voice  from  behind  a  hedge,  as  Clement  strolled  on  leisurely 
through  the  fields. 

"  Good  day  to  you,  old  fellow  !  What  arc  you  doing  up 
here  ?" 

"What  arc  you  doing.  Master  Clement?  is  the  question." 
And  GofF,  slowly ,  unfastening  a  gate  which  separated  them, 
joined  Clement  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge. 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  oiF  your  post  out  there,"  said 
Clement,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  headland  near  which 
the  shipwreck  had  happened. 

"That's  according  to  circumstances,  young  gentleman.     I 


CLEVE   HALL.  bU 

may  liave  my  business  inland  as  well  as  other  folks.  I  say, 
you  can  tell  where  your  master's  gone,  can't  you  ?" 

"  I  have  not  got  a  master  that  I  know  of/'  said  Clement, 
haughtily. 

"  You  needn't  flush  up  like  that,  young  gentleman.  Master 
or  no  master,  he  keeps  you  pretty  strict." 

"■  He  keeps  me  as  I  choose  to  be  kept ;"  said  Clement. 
"  He  hasn't  a  grain  of  power  over  me." 

"  Well !  did  I  ever  know  such  a  milksop,  then  ?"  And 
Goff  laughed  contemptuously. 

Clement's  eyes  flashed  with  anger,  but  GoS  only  laughed 
the  more.  "  Why,  what  a  pity  to  throw  away  such  a  spirit ! 
The  boy's  got  something  in  him,  after  all.  I  say,  my  young 
sir,  what  made  you  fail  me  the  other  night  in  that  fashion  ? 
I've  had  it  on  my  mind  ever  since  to  call  you  to  account." 

"  What  other  night  ?  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about,"  replied  Clement,  hastily.  "  You  failed  me,  if  that's 
what  you  mean,  the  night  of  the  storm ;  and  a  good  thing, 
too,  as  it  turned  out." 

*'  Good  or  not,  that's  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  If  a 
youngster  makes  a  promise  to  me  I  expect  it's  to  be  kept;  and 
if  it  isn't,  why  I  know  how  to  trust  him  another  time." 

"  You  told  me  to  be  down  at  the  boat-house  by  six,"  said 
Clement,  his  tone  rising  with  irritation,  ''and  I  was  there  strict 
to  a  moment ;  and  there  were  you,  oif." 

''And  you  only  too  glad  to  find"  me  so,"  exclaimed  Gofi". 
"  What  a  white  face  we  should  have  seen  if  you'd  been  near- 
iug  the  point,  as  Eonald  and  I  were,  when  the  squall  came  on. 
That  young  fellow  is  desperate  in  a  storm  :  he'd  have  had  us 
stand  out  and  brave  it,  if  I  hadn't  been  fixed  against  it.  And 
well  enough  I  was  !  We  shouldn't  have  been  left  with  two 
shreds  together  ten  minutes  after  we  got  back." 

"  It's  time  enough  to  talk  of  white  faces  when  you  have 
seen  them,"  exclaimed  Clement,  proudly.  "  But  that  is  not 
what  I  was  thinking  of,  You  were  oft',  you  say,  yourself;  so 
whcrc's  the  fault  to  find  with  me  ?" 

"  That  'twas  your  message  which  sent  me  ofi","  said  Goff, 
coolly.  _ 

"  Mine  ! — ray  message  ?" 

"  Whose  else  could  it  be  ?     ]lonald  brought  it." 

*'  Ilonald  ?  It  was  false — it  was  a  lie  !"  and  Clement's  face 
Ijccame  crimson,  whilst,  pacing  up  and  down  the  rough  road 
before  the  gate,  he  went  on  muttering  to  himself,  "  False  fel 


84:  CLEVE    IIAI.L. 

low  I      A    lie!     Won't   I   make   him   eat   his   words?      Falso 
fellow  !" 

"  Not  so  false,  neither,  Master  Clement.  He  only  said  what 
he  knew  was  true  ;  that  'twas  likely  to  be  a  rough  evening,  and 
so  we'd  best  be  off  without  you." 

"  And  he  said  that  I  said  it?"  exclaimed  Clement,  stopping 
suddenly. 

"  Well !  there's  no  need  to  take  it  so  much  to  heart,"  re- 
plied Goff,  evading  a  direct  answer.  " 'Tis  but  to  show  that 
you've  got  more  pluck  in  you  than  he  gives  you  credit  for; 
3nd  that's  soon  done.  There's  more  to  be  done  in  that  way, 
in  this  part  of  the  world,  than  idle  folks  wot  of.". 

His  familiar  wink  accompanying  the  words  was  very  repul- 
sive to  Clement's  fastidiousness ;  and  as  Goff  drew  rearer,  and 
even  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  patronisingly,  he  drew  back. 

''Oh!  if  that's  your  line,  keep  to  it,"  said  Goff;  and  lie 
took  up  the  small  telescope,  his  constant  companion,  which  he 
had  laid  upon  the  ground  during  his  conversation  with  Clement. 
"  Of  course,  I'm  not  going  to  thrust  fun  on  them  that  haven't 
spirit  for  it.  There's  enough  work  for  me  without  that ;  and 
for  Ronald,  too." 

The  mention  of  Ttonald's  name  again  touched  Clement's 
angry  feeling. 

"  I'll  trouble  you  not  to  speak  of  that  youngster  again,"  he 
exclaimed  haughtily.  "  I  have  an  account  to  settle  with  him ; 
and  I  mean  to  see  to  it." 

Goff  eyed  him  with  a  glance  of  sarcastic  superiority.  "  I 
wish  you  joy  of  getting  your  match  !  Why,  Ronald — Ronald 
Vivian  ! — he'd  make  three  such  as  you,  my  boy !" 

"  If  he  could  make  fifty  such,  he  should  answer  for  his 
words  !"  exclaimed  Clement,  in  a  tone  which  showed  that  his 
vanity  was  stung  to  the  quick.  "  So  mean  ! — so  cowardly  ! — 
to  make  it  appear  that  I  was  afraid  ! — that  I  wouldn't  risk  what 
he  did !"     And  again  he  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  road. 

Goff  made  no  comment  upon  his  words,  but  resting  his  glass 
upon  the  gatepost,  looked  long  and  attentively  in  the  direction 
where  the  headland,  suddenly  terminating,  gave  a  long  line 
of  the  sea  to  view.  A  little  vessel  was  making  its  way  rapidly 
from  the  shore,  the  wind  being  faA'orable. 

"  She's  a  jolly  little  craft/'  muttered  Goff  to  himself;  "  how 
she  does  cut  along  !" 

The  observation  attracted  Clement^  but  he  tried  not  to 
bIiow  it. 


CLEVE    HALL.  85 

Guff  continued: — ^'A  jolly  little  craft,  if  there  ever  was 
one  !  If  it  had  been  her,  now,  the  other  night,  and  Ronald 
in  her — instead  of  that  old  hulk,  with  the  Frenchman  at  the 
helm — she'd  have  ridden  out  the  gale  like  a  queen  !" 

"  Ronald  couldn't  manage  a  vessel,'^  exclaimed  Clement, 
quickly. 

"  Couldn't  he,  now  ?     Why  just  you  try — that's  all !" 

*^  I  wouldn't  tnist  myself  with  him,"  said  Clement. 

"  Why  no,  to  be  sure;  you  wouldn't  trust  yourself  in  any- 
thing but  a  Lord  Mayor's  barge,  in  a  river  three  feet  deep  !" 

"I'd  trust  myself  in  anything  that  Ronald  trusts  himself 
in,"  exclaimed  Clement,  not  seeing  his  own  inconsistency. 
"  Let  it  be  a  cockle-shell,  or  a  man-of-war." 

"  Or  a  neat  little  trimmer,  like  her  yonder  ?"  said  GofF. 

"  That,  or  anything,"  replied  Clement. 

"  Take  you  at  your  word,  then,"  said  GofF,  qiiicklj.  "  Will 
you  go,  now,  for  a  lark,  some  day,  and  try  her  ?" 

Clement  hesitated;  he  felt  that  he  should  be  wrong  in 
agreeing  to  the  proposal;  but  his  vanity — his  mortified  vanity 
— how  could  he  resist  it  ? 

''Good  b'yel  and  joy  be  with  you,  for  a  land-lubber!'' 
exclaimed  Goff.     "You'll  never  learn  to  manage  a  craft !" 

Clement  caught  at  the  word.  "  Manage '( — Yes,  I  would 
go  directly,  if  I  might  be  taught  to  manage  it.  It  would  help 
me,  if  I  go  to  sea,"  he  continued,  in  an  under  tone,  to  his 
conscience. 

"Folks  can't  manage  all  at  once;  they  must  learn  their 
trade  first,"  was  GofF's  discouraging  reply.  "  So  good  b'ye  to 
ye!"  He  walked  away  a  few  paces,  but  very  slowly;  and 
then  he  turned  round,  and  looked  again  at  Clement,  and 
nodded. 

Clement  was  intensely  irritated.  "  I  say;  old  fellow  !  I'll 
be  with  you,  some  night,  down  at  the  Point,  when  you  don't 
expect  me ;  and  see  if  I  don't  find  out  as  much  of  your  affairs 
as  Ronald  knows.  He  manage  a  vessel,  indeed  !"  and  Clement 
laughed  loudly  and  contemptuously. 

"  You'll  please  to  wait  to  be  asked  before  you  give  your 
company  were  you  aren't  needed,  JMaster  Clement,"  said  GofF, 
f-topping,  and  looking  at  him  surlily.  "Meddle  with  what 
doesn't  concern  you,  and  I'd  as  soon  cudgel  your  head  as  I 
would — this  thistle,"  and  he  knocked  off  the  top  of  one  which 
stood  in  his  way. 

Clement's  laugh  was  neither  as  loud  imr  as  contcmptuc  us 


CLEVE    UALL. 


as  before.  lie  inuttcred  something  nbout  finding  Ronald,  and 
making  him  answer  for  his  woi'ds;  and,  looking  at  his  watch, 
turned  sharply  round,  and  walked  back  to  Eucombe. 


M". 


CHAPTER  XII. 
LESTER  was  not  returned  when  Clement  reached 


sufficient  work  prepared  for  him  to  attend  to  by  himself.  Ella 
persuaded  him  that  there  were  difficulties  not  to  be  mastered 
alone,  and  accordingly  he  lounged  away  his  time  in  an  arm- 
chair, threatening  Ronald,  and  making  the  excuse  that  his 
walk  had  tired  him.  So  the  whole  afternoon  was  wasted ;  for, 
as  it  happened,  Mr.  Lester  did  not  come  back  from  Cleve  till 
very  late.  He  had  been  detained,  he  sent  word,  by  business ; 
and  Louisa  contrived  to  discover,  before  the  evening  was  over, 
that  he  had  been  seen  in  Cleve  walking  with  Mr.  Bruce,  and 
had  afterwards  returned  with  him  to  the  Farm.  This  latter 
piece  of  information  she  extracted  from  Rachel,  who  appeared 
at  the  Lodge  in  the  evening  with  some  flowers  for  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell, which  had  been  sent  her  by  Jlrs.  Robinson.  Why  Mr. 
Brace  should  have  gone  to  the  Farm  Rachel  did  not  profess  to 
know,  but  Louisa  settled  the  question  without  any  difficulty. 
Cleve  was  an  odious  place,  and  the  Farm  was  very  quiet  and 
comfortable,  and  much  nearer  the  shore ;  and  Louisa  had  some 
indistinct  idea  that  Mr.  Bruce  was  detained  at  Encombe  by 
some  secret  business  connected  with  the  wreck.  "What — she 
had  not  fully  decided ;  having  failed,  as  yet,  in  determining 
to  her  own  satisfaction,  whether  he  was  partly  the  owner  of 
the  vessel,  and  so  interested  in  its  fate  merely  as  a  matter  of 
business,  or  some  hero  of  romance,  whose  story  by-and-by  was 
to  astonish  them  all.  The  foi'mer  idea  suited  the  report 
brought  by  Rachel,  who  had  just  left  him  at  the  Parsonage, 
where  he  was  to  di'ink  tea.  "  There  was  nothing  in  him  very 
wonderful  to  look  at,"  she  said  :  "he  was  as  yellow  as  a  bit  of 
parchment;  and  somebody  had  said  he  had  come  to  England 
for  his  health.  He  spoke  like  a  gentleman, — that  was  one 
thing ;  but  he  seemed  to  dislike  talking,  and  she  had  not  once 
i-ecn  him  smile  :"  an  observation  which  drew  frtim  Ella  the 


CLEVE   HALL.  87 

remark  that,  for  that  reason,  he  would  be  so  much  the  better 
fitted  to  live  with  Mrs.  Robinson,  who  was  known  to  have 
cried  so  much  the  day  she  was  born,  that  she  had  never  got 
over  it. 

This  infonnation  of  Rachel's  was  but  the  beginning  of 
speculation  and  curiosity  for  Louisa;  though  there  was  in 
reality  but  little  to  give  rise  to  either.  Mr.  Bruce  certainly 
Bettled  himself  at  the  Farm,  but  he  was  a  quiet  individual, 
very  much  out  of  health,  and  suffering  especially  from  the  cold 
and  shock  he  had  endured  the  night  of  the  wreck.  Moreover, 
he  was  always  upon  the  point  of  departure  for  London  ;  so  that 
he  could  not  be  looked  upon  as  a  resident  subject  for  gossip, 
and  no  one  probably  but  Louisa  would  have  thought  it  worth 
while  to  make  any  remarks  upon  his  comings  and  goings.  She, 
however,  always  knew  when  he  drank  tea  at  the  Rectory,  and 
when  Mr.  Lester  went  to  visit  him  at  the  Farm ;  and  she 
learnt  from  Rachel  a  good  many  details  as  to  the  furniture  of 
his  apartment,  and  the  curious  things  he  had  "  put  about  the 
room,"  a,s  she  expressed  it,  in  order  to  make  it  look  comfort- 
able,— strange,  foreign,  Indian-looking  things, — boxes,  and 
figures,  and  a  few  books, — not  a  great  many,  for  Rachel  doubted 
if  he  were  fond  of  reading. 

"  Once,  however,  Louisa  came  home  herself  in  great  triumph, 
having  seen  Mr.  Bruce  at  the  door  of  the  Farm  garden,  and 
even  spoken  to  him, — that  is,  as  she  acknowledged  afterwards, 
he  onl}^  said,  "How  d'ye  do?"  and  she  said,  "Very  well,  1 
thank  you;"  but  then  he  looked  at  her  very  earnestly,  and  that 
was  particularly  flattering  from  a  person  whom  no  one  knew 
anything  about. 

Had  Louisa  been  in  Rachel's  place,  Mr.  Bruce's  affairs 
would  have  had  no  chance  of  remaining  private,  for  Rachel 
v.'as  at  the  Farm  constantly.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Robinson  urged 
her  coming  to  cheer  her  lonely  guest, — perhaps  Mr.  Bruce 
hiiiisclf  liked  the  society  of  the  simple,  earnest-minded,  affec- 
tionate child.  Rachel  seldom  told  who  asked  her;  and  in 
rc']ily  to  the  questions  as  to  how  she  amused  herself  when  there, 
replied',  that  she  read,  and  talked,  and  looked  at  curiosities;  a 
\  cry  natural  and  rational  answer,  but  not  particularly  inform- 
ing to  Louisa's  inquisitivcness.  A  few  attcm})ts  were  made 
to  induce  Aunt  Bertha  to  intrude  upon  Mrs.  Robinson's  pri- 
vacy, but  there  was  an  antipathy  felt,  though  not  expressed, 
which  kept  Bertha  and  Mrs.  Robinson  apart.  Mrs.  Robinson 
svidently  did  not  "  take  kindly"  to  the  Lodge.     Even  thoug'h 


88  CLEVE   HaLL. 

the  cliiklrcn  were  Ilacliers  friends,  she  could  not  bring  her 
self  to  ask  them  to  conic  within  the  gate;  at  least,  wheu 
Bertha  was  with  them.  If  she  met  them  alone  it  was  different ; 
yet  even  then  there  was  a  restraint :  it  was  as  if  she  always 
had  a  double  feeling  about  them,  and  was  inclined  to  give  them 
a  kiss  on  one  cheek,  and  a  slap  on  the  other;  and  Bertha's 
chilling  manner  never  helped  to  surmount  the  difficulty. 

Since  Mr.  Bruce  had  been  at  the  Farm  the  coolness  was 
still  more  evident.  Mrs.  Ilobinson  could  not  well  be  rude, 
but  she  was  as  nearly  so  as  it  was  in  her  nature  to  be,  and 
almost  told  them  sometimes  that  she  had  rather  they  would 
walk  in  any  other  direction.  She  said  so  one  evening  espe- 
cially, when  Rachel,  Fanny,  and  Louisa,  were  walking  toge- 
ther, and  Louisa  was  rather  eager  to  be  allowed  to  sec  the 
garden.  Bertha  was  some  little  way  behind;  if  she  had 
been  near,  Louisa  would  scarcely  have  ventured  to  insist  as 
she  did  upon  being  allowed  to  come  in  just  for  five  minutes. 

''It's  too  late.  Miss  Louisa;  another  time,  if  you  please," 
was  INIrs.  Robinson's  discouraging  reply  to  the  proposal. 

''  But  we  won't  be  five  minutes  ;  no,  not  three,"  persisted 
Louisa;  ''we  will  just  run  round  once,  and  then  be  back;  we 
shall  have  done  it  before  Aunt  Bertha  comes  up." 

"  May  be,  your  aunt  wouldn't  like  it,  Miss  Louisa,"  replied 
Mrs.  Robinson,  decidedly. 

"May  be  she  would,"  retorted  Louisa,  perversely,  and 
rather  rudely. 

Mrs.  Robinson  froze  into  a  statue.  "  Young  ladies  should 
learn  to  behave  themselves,  and  not  take  liberties,"  she 
answered.  "  Good  evening,  Miss  Rachel,  my  dear.  It's  my 
advice  to  you  all  to  get  home." 

She  walked  away  without  any  softening  word ;  but  Rachel 
followed  her.  "  Granny,  dear,  you  shouldn't  mind  Louisa  ; 
it's  her  nature." 

"  So  much  the  worse,  my  dear ;  it's  hard  to  put  off  nature. 
But  I'm  not  troubling  about  that." 

"  Well,  what  are  you  troubling  yourself  about ;  it's 
always  something.     Isn't  Mr.  Bruce's  room  large  enough  for 

him  r 

3Irs.  Robinson  sinilcd.  "  Why  you  know,  Miss  Rachel, 
he's  got  the  old  back  room  looking  out  upon  the  elms,  and  it 
would  hold  a  regiment." 

"  Then  he  is  fidgety  about  his  tea  and  bread  and  butter." 
"He  doesn't  take  tea;  he  always  drinks  coffee."     Mrs 


CLEVE    HALL.  89 

llobiiisou's  face  relased  a  little  more,  as   it  always  did  wlieu 
she  was  talking  to  Rachel. 

"  Theu  it's  something  I  am  not  to  know,  so  I  won't  tease 
yoti,  Granny;  only  I  wish  you  would  tell  me." 

They  were  standing  by  a  low  door  which  opened  into  the 
garden.     Mrs.  Robinson  pushed  it  open. 

'*  He's  in  there,  you  may  go  and  speak  a  word  to  him  if 
you  will." 

Rachel  seemed  doubtful.  ''Louisa  won't  like  it;  and  Miss 
Campbell  too;  —  no,  perhaps  I  had  better  not;"  yet  she 
evidently  wished  to  go. 

"  He  has  been  teaching  the  parrot  to  say  your  name,"  said 
Mrs.  Robinson. 

That  was  a  very  gi*eat  temptation,  and  Rachel  ran  back  to 
her  companions.  Bertha  had  joined  them  now,  and  was  hur- 
rying them  away.  She  did  not  like  them,  she  said,  to  be 
staring  over  the  wall  in  that  way ;  it  looked  so  curious. 

"  Sirs.  Robinson  wants  me  to  go  in  one  minute.  Mr.  Bruce 
has  a  parrot  for  me ;  might  I  go,  do  you  think  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  to  be  sure,"  exclaimed  Louisa;  "and  we  will 
walk  up  and  down  the  road  till  you  come  out." 

"  Louisa,  you  forget  yourself.  Does  Mr.  Bruce  want  to 
see  you,  Rachel  ?"  inquired  Bertha. 

•     "I  don't  know  that  he  wants  to  see  me  exactly;  but  he 
has  a  paiTot  for  me." 

"3Ir.  Lester  will  be  coming  by-and-by,  ma'am,"  observed 
Mrs.  Robinson,  drawing  near  the  gate.  "  jMiss  Rachel  may 
go  back  with  him,  if  you  please  to  leave  her." 

Bertha's  sense  of  duty  was  touched  :  Rachel  was  under  her 
especial  charge.  "I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  "I  can't  say 
that  I  have  permission  to  leave  her." 

"I  see  5lr.  Bruce  very  often,  Papa  lets  mc,"  whispered 
Rachel,  pleadingly. 

Bertha  still  hesitated ;  her  back  was  to  the  garden  gale ; 
she  could  not  see  Louisa's  glance  at  Fanny,  and  the  finger 
which  was  pointed  in  that  direction. 

"  I  see  him,  don't  you?"  whispered  Fanny. 

Louisa  moved  a  few  steps  aside.  "  Yes,  close  to  the  door ; 
I  do  believe  he's  coming." 

Mr.  Bruce  appeared  in  the  doorway.  Mrs.  Robinson  saw 
liis  shadow,  she  could  not  have  seen  himself. 

"Never  mind,  Miss  Rachel,  then,  to-night,"  she  said. 
•'  Good    evening,    ma'am/'    and    she   dropped   a  respectful 


90  CLEVE   nALL. 

curtsey  to  Bertha,  uliie-h  yet  plainly  saiil,  ''the  sooner  you  gc 
the  better." 

Eachel  acqiiicsced,  Ijut  with  an  air  of  disappointment  which 
briglitened  into  sunKhine  as  she  glanced  ut  the  garden  door- 
way; and,  hastily  appealing  to  Bertha  for  permission,  she 
threw  open  the  wicket  gate  of  the  entrance  court,  and  rushing 
up  to  her  new  friend  exclaimed,  "  I  mustn't  stay,  but  I  may 
just  thank  j'ou;  it  was  so  kind.  I  am  so  very  much  obliged 
about  the  parrot." 

"  And  I  am  very  glad  you  arc  glad,  my  child."  Only  the 
tone  reached  the  place  where  the  rest  were  standing;  tho 
words  were  unintelligible. 

"  You  don't  look  at  all  well,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Robinson 
to  Bertha;  "  hadn't  you  better  come  in  and  rest." 

Bertha  was  very  pale;  her  ej^e  had  a  wandering,  almost 
vacant,  look.  "  Thank  you,  no.  I  had  better  go  home, 
llachcl  !  I  wish  she  would  come."  She  moved,  apparently 
intending  to  enter  within  the  wicket,  but  Mrs.  Robinson  placed 
herself  so  as  to  prevent  her.  "I  will  call  her,  ma'am;"  and 
Bertha  drew  back. 

"  Mr.  Bruce  has  taken  Rachel  to  see  the  parrot,"  said 
Fanny.     "  I  wish  he  would  let  me  go  too." 

"  I  can  sec  him,  and  I  can  see  Rachel,  too,"  said  Louisa, 
stretching  her  neck,  "just  round  the  walk;  there  they  arc^ 
Now  I  think  they  ai'e  going  in-doors.  Mr.  Bruce's  room 
opens  into  the  garden;  that  is — it  doesn't  open  exactly,  it  is 
up-stairs, — the  large  room.  Aunt  Bertha,  you  have  been  in 
Mr.  Bruce's  room,  haven't  you  ?" 

Bertha  did  not  hear;  she  was  resting  against  the  low  wall, 
not  seemingly  impatient,  only  very  worn  and  wearied.  They 
were  kept  but  a  few  moments ;  Rachel  came  running  back, 
Mrs.  Robinson  slowly  following,  with  the  parrot  in  his  cage. 

"  Miss  Rachel  would  have  you  see  it,  ma'am,"  she  said, 
apologetically,  to  Bertha. 

''  It  will  talk,  it  will  say  my  name  !"  exclaimed  Rachel,  in 
delight.     "  Pretty  Poll !  do  speak,  Polly  !" 

Of  course  the  parrot  did  not  speak :  what  bird  ever  did 
when  it  was  told  to  do  so  ? 

''  He  will  if  Mr.  Bruce  tells  him,"  said  Rachel.  She 
glanced  wistfully  at  the  doorway. 

"■  Miss  Campbell  wants  to  go  home.  You  mustn't  kecj; 
her  any  more  to-night  with  the  bird,"  observed  Mrs.  Robin 
son,  hurriedly. 


CLEVE    HALL.  91 

Tlie  parrot  uttered  a  loud  scream,  and  a  short  sharp  word  ; 
it  was  not  Rachel,  though  Fanny  persisted  it  was. 

"  He  said  it  quite  plainly  just  now,"  said  Eachel,  in  a 
vexed  tone ;  "  but  never  mind.  There,  Granny  dear,  take  it 
away;  never  mind.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  troublesome  and 
keep  you,  dear  Miss  Campbell,"  she  added  in  her  most  win- 
ning manner. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  it  speak  again,"  said  Bertha,  and 
she  withdrew  her  hand,  which  itachel  had  taken  hold  of.  She 
had  no  intention  of  being  ungracious,  but  she  was  not  think- 
ing of  Rachel  at  the  moment. 

Rachel  thought  she  was  angry,  and  went  up  to  Mrs.  Robin- 
son, who  was  standing  apart.  "I  am  so  sorry,  Granny;  I 
know  it  was  naughty  of  me." 

''  Never  mind,  my  darling ;  it -is  her  way."  But  even  Mrs. 
Robinson  was  a  little  quick  in  her  manner,  and  poor  Rachel's 
sensitive  feelings  were  touched,  and  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 
She  did  not  go  near  the  parrot. 

"  It  said,  '  How  d'ye  do,'  Aunt  Bertha,  that  was  all,"  ex- 
claimed Louisa,  impatiently.  "  Parrots  always  say,  '  How 
d'ye  do.'  " 

"And  a  good  deal  besides,  sometimes,  Louisa,"  replied 
Bertha,  gravely  and  stiffly. 

Fanny  tapped  the  cage, — the  scream  followed  again,  and 
the  word,  which  Louisa  now  asserted  to  be  a  name — Flora,  she 
thought  it  was  like — at  which  Fanny  laughed  heartily,  declar- 
ing, with  vehemence,  that  it  was  much  more  like  Charlie,  or 
hungry,  or  fetch  me.  Bertha  said  nothing ;  and  as  Louisa's 
proposition  of  summoning  Mr.  Bruce  to  be  the  interpreter  was 
unseconded,  the  bird  was  consigned  to  Mrs.  Robinson's  care, 
and  the  little  party  moved  homewards. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 


fpHEY  were  at  home  early;  Bertha  had  insisted  upon  it; 
J[  she  had  business  in  the  village  she  said ;  and  so,  when 
the  children  had  set  themselves  to  their  evening  lessons  and 
Ella  was  reading  to  her  grandmamma,  Bertha  stole  quietly  out 
at  the  back  gate,  and  walked  leisurely  down  the  lane.     Sho 


92  CLEVE    HALL. 

still  looked  pale,  but  it  was  not  so  much  fro;n  the  wear  of 
bodily  as  of  mental  fatigue.  That  indeed  was  the  expression 
of  her  features  generally ;  probably  from  the  consciousness  of 
having  the  comfort  of  others  depending  upon  licr,  and  having 
so  many  causes  for  anxiety;  but  this  evening  there  was  not 
only  gravity  in  her  face,  but  doubt  and  perplexity. 

She  walked  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  thinking, 
and  then  occasionally  looked  up  as  though  expecting  to  see 
something  which  might  startle  her,  but  the  village  was  very 
<(uict;  the  men  were  still  at  their  work  in  the  fields,  the 
women  preparing  for  their  return,  and  the  children,  just  let 
out  of  school,  were  busy  in  the  play-ground,  and  only  inter- 
rupted the  quietness  of  the  hour  by  distant  shouts  of  laughter. 

Bertha  pursued  her  way  by  the  lane  which  led  from  the 
Parsonage  to  the  village,  and  after  passing  a  few  of  the  prin- 
cipal cottages,  ascended  a  steep  path,  terminating  in  a  long 
flight  of  steps,  which  was  the  short  way  from  the  village  to 
the  church.  Encombe  church  was  at  some  little  distance  from 
the  village ;  it  stood  by  itself,  on  the  summit  of  a  square  hill, 
which  on  three  sides  rose  abruptly  from  the  plain,  and  on  the 
other  leaned  as  it  were  against  the  range  of  lofty  downs  encir- 
cling the  village.  The  ground  must  once  have  formed  part  of 
an  open  heath,  for  gorse,  and  heather,  and  fern  still  covered  it 
in  luxuriance,  and  the  wild  downs  rose  immediately  above  it, 
and  rough  land,  only  in  part  enclosed,  stretched  away  to  the 
cast  and  west.  It  was  a  marvel  what  the  little  church  should 
do  there  alone,  looking  over  the  wooded  plain  to  the  blue  hori- 
zon of  the  ocean.  Except  at  the  times  of  service,  it  seemed 
to  have  no  lesson  to  preach  to  the  poor,  nor  any  word  of  warn- 
ing to  oiFcr  to  the  rich  ;  for  the  busy  stir  of  life  had  deserted 
it,  and  the  white  grave-stones  told  their  tales  to  the  happy 
birds  and  the  glad  insects,  but  had  no  daily  and  hourly  voice 
for  the  reckless  or  the  thoughtless  of  mankind. 

Yet  it  was  very  solemn  to  worship  there  :  hopeful  with  the 
hope  of  Heaven  in  the  brilliant  summer  mornings,  when  dew 
drops,  sparkling  with  living  light,  hung  upon  the  grass,  and 
sunshine,  flickering  and  quivering,  lay  in  broad  masses  of 
burnished  silver  upon  the  sea;  and  calming  as  with  the  repose 
of  the  last,  long  sleep,  in  the  still  evenings,  when  the  rush  of 
the  waves  came  like  a  requiem  for  the  dead,  moaning  over  the 
sandy  beach ;  and  awful,  subduing,  crashing  to  all  human 
vanity  and  folly,  when  the  harsh  roar  of  the  winti-y  elements 
thundered  around  the  stronc;  old  walls  and  told  of  that  Ah 


CLEVE    HALL.  93 

migbty  PoAFcr  which  shall  one  day  "■  break  in  pieces  the 
rouiidatious  of  the  earth/'  and  summon  the  world  to  judgment. 

Bertha  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  then  paused  to 
rest.  A  stone  bench  in  the  porch  was  her  seat,  and  for  a  few 
moments  she  remained  gazing,  apparently  without  interest, 
upon  the  lovely  view,  set  as  in  a  picture  frame,  in  the  rough 
Norman  archway.  But  a  shadow,  the  long  shadow  of  a  human 
figure,  fell  upon  the  graves,  and  she  rose  up  suddenly,  and 
stepped  forth  into  the  open  air.  Bonald  Vivian  was  there  to 
meet  her. 

''  I  hoped  you  would  be  punctual,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
was  slightly  tremulous. 

"  It  w:\s  hard  work  to  be  so,"  said  the  boy,  abniptly.  But 
he  held  out  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  and  grasped  Bertha's  with 
a  heartiness  which  seemed  as  if  it  must  at  once  break  down 
her  chilling  shyness.  "  My  father  was  oiF  with  GofF  early, 
and  I  am  to  meet  him  two  hours  hence,"  he  continued;  "if 
it  was  not  for  that,  I  couldn't  have  come.  But  you  have  been 
walking,  you  must  be  tired."  He  brushed  away  the  sand  and 
dust  which  had  collected  on  the  bench,  and  took  off  a  light 
upper  coat,  and  laid  it  for  Bertha  to  sit  upon. 

"Thank  you,  Ilonald;  I  am  glad  you  came,"  but  Bertha's 
manner  was  so  nervous  as  to  be  almost-cold. 

He  waited,  however,  for  her  to  begin  the  conversation, 
standing  at  a  little  distance,  and  leaning  against  the  archway 
in  an  attitude  of  attention  and  deference.  He  looked  upon 
her  evidently  as  a  superior  being. 

"  You  did  what  I  wished  the  other  night,"  began  Bertha, 
"  in  keeping  Clement  from  going  with  Goff,  and  I  wanted  to 
thank  you." 

"  I  did  what  I  could;  but  I  got  into  disgrace :  never  mind 
that,  though." 

"  Disgrace  with  your  father  ?" 

"  No,  not  with  him  ;  he  knew  nothing  about  it ;  but  Goff 
abused  Clement,  and  Clement  abuses  me.  Yet  I  said  nothing 
but  the  truth.  It  was  Goff's  misrepresentation  :  I  couldn't 
tell  a  falsehood." 

"  Clement  does  not  think  you  did." 

Ilonald  laughed  shortly.  "  He  says  he  does ;  and  he 
threatens  a  good  deal;  but  that  won't  matter.  I  shan't 
notice  it." 

"No,  indeed,  I  trust  not,"' exclaimed  Boj-tlia;  '' it  would 
l)e  worse  than  anything  if  you  were  to  ({uarrel." 


01:  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  ITe  -wimlil  keep  aloof  from  me  in  tliiit  case,"  8aiJ  Ri)iialt"l, 
rather  proudly;   ''and  so  you  would  be  satisfied." 

"The  old  feeling,  llonald,"  observed  JJertha,  quietly,  but 
vciy  gravely. 

"  It  would  be  what  you  wish,  and  what  Mr.  Lester  wishes," 
replied  Ronald. 

"Perhaps  so;  but  we  woiild  have  you  keep  apart,  from  the 
knowledge  that  it  is  best, — not  because  you  are  too  proud  to 
be  with  him." 

"  I  know  I  am  not  fit  company  for  him,"  he  replied, 
moodily;   "  nor  for  any  one,"  was  added  in  an  under  tone. 

"  We  will  not  talk  of  that,  llonald ;  my  wishes  and  Mr. 
Lester's  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  question  of  fitness." 

"  But  you  have  said  as  much,"  he  continued. 

"  I  said  it  when  I  thought  it, — but  opinions  change ;  you 
have  set  him  a  noble  example  lately." 

The  boy  bit  his  lip, — and  turned  away  abn;ptly. 

"  When  Clement  shall  risk  his  life  to  save  that  of  another, 
it  will  be  time  enough  -io  consider  whether  you  are  a  fit  com- 
panion," continued  Bertha.  "  Mr.  Lester  thanks  you,  Ronald ; 
so  do  I." 

"  There  was  no  danger ;  we  could  both  swim,"  he  said, 
gruffly,  and  still  withoitt  looking  at  her. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  was  Bertha's  only  answer.  She  understood 
him  thoroughly,  and  changed  the  subject. 

"  And  you  will  still  keep  your  promise,  Ronald  ?" 

"  As  long  as  it  is  required ;  but  Mr.  Lester  says,  I  may  be 
gone  shortly." 

"  Two  months,  it  may  be,  or  three, — and  we  have  to  gain 
yoxir  father's  consent." 

"Yet  he  will  never  ask  mine  for  anything, — he  will  force 
me,  drag  me  with  him  at  his  will,  down,  down,  down,"  and 
Ronald's  voice  sank  till  it  was  lost  in  a  whisper  of  awe. 

"  Not  against  your  own  will,"  dear  Ronald,  replied  Bertha, 
her  tone  changing  from  its  usual  chilling  monotony  into  the 
tender  interest  of  an  elder  sister.  "No  one,  not  even  the 
Spirit  of  Evil  himself,  can  harm  us  against  our  will." 

"It  is  easy  for  those  to  talk,"  he  replied,  "who  are  never 
tempted." 

"I  am  not  tempted,  as  you  arc,  it  is  true.  Yet  I  am  in  a 
different  way,  and  when  I  fall,  Ronald,  it  is  my  own  will 
v^hich  makes  me  do  so." 


CLEVE    HALL.  95 

"You!"  he  exclaimed,  impetuously.  ''3Iiss  Campbell, 
yon  can  never  will  to  do  wrong." 

''Perhaps  not  often, — I  hope  not;  but  I  may  not  will 
strong'ly  to  do  right,  and  the  end  is  the  same." 

Eonald  was  thoughtful";  he  repeated  the  word  ''strongly" 
to  himself. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Bertha,  answering  what  she  believed  to 
be  in  his  mind.  "  A  weak  will  must,  uuless  strengthened, 
end  like  a  sinful  will.  But  you  have  not  naturally  a  weak 
will,  Bonald.  You  have  great  faults,  but  they  are  strong 
faults, — and  the  same  strength  which  has  hitherto,  so  fre- 
quently, carried  you  away  into  sin,  may,  through  God's  mercy, 
lead  you  far  on  the  road  to  goodness." 

He  looked  up  suddenly,  and  the  gleaming  of  the  sinking 
sun  flashed  across  his  face,  and  brightened  into  intensity  the 
glance  of  his  eye.  But  it  was  for  a  moment  only,  and  again 
his  eyes  were  cast  down,  and  the  cloud  gathered  upon  his  brow. 

"  And  you  may  have  much  to  keep  you  upright,  a  noble 
object  for  which  to  live,"  continued  Bertha. 

"  When  I  am  pointed  at  as  the  son  of  a  drunkard,  the  com- 
rade of  smugglers  !"  he  muttered,  scornfully. 

"  Rather,"  replied  Bertha,  "  when  you  shall  be  known  as 
the  child  of  one  who  lived  the  life  of  a  saint  upon  earth,  and 
left  to  you  the  task  to  retrieve  the  name  she  bore  from  dis- 
honor.    Ronald,  have  you  forgotten  jour  mother  ?" 

He  made  no  reply — but  throwing  himself  upon  the  rough 
bench,  hid  his  face  against  the  worn  stones  of  the  porch  ;  and 
a  sound,  as  of  a  sob,  escaped  him,  but  it  was  stifled,  and  Ber- 
tha, without  noticing  it,  continued  : — 

"It  is  the  anniversary  of  your  mother's  death,  Rouald; 
eight  years  ago,  on  this  night,  she  died." 

A  shudder  passed  over  his  frame,  as  he  murmured,  "  And 
left  me  to  ruin." 

"  And  left  ymi  a  work  which,  in  her  woman's  weakness, 
she  could  probably  never  have  performed.  She  did  not  then 
know  its  full  extent, — but  uow,  if  it  be  permitted  to  the  dead 
to  watch  what  passes  upon  earth,  she  would  surely  long  that 
you  may  be  able  to  accomplish  it.  Ronald,  your  father  did 
a  grievous  injury;  you  may  retrieve  it." 

"  It  would  take  the  labor  of  twenty  lives  to  retrieve  his 
injuries,"  said  Ronald,  in  the  moody  tone  which  was  natural 
to  him  whenever  his  father  was  mentioned. 

Bertha  was  silenced  for  a  moment;   she  seemed  pained. 


00  CLEVE    HALL. 

(lislicnrtened.  "  And  you  do  not  wish  to  kno-w  what  yon  niay 
have  it  iu  j'our  power  to  do,"  she  asked,  somewhat  reproach- 
fully. 

He  rose  up,  and  there  was  an  aceout  of  haughtiness  in  his 
reply.  "  I  do  know  it;  to  keep  away  from  Clement,-  that  his 
grandfather  may  not  think  him  disgraced  by  having  me  for  a 
companion." 

"  Something  more  than  that,  Ronald,"  said  Bertha,  sadly. 
''  "Would  you  listen  if  I  were  to  tell  it  you  ?" 

The  intonation  of  her  voice  strangely  touched  him.  Per- 
haps it  bore  him  back  to  other  and  innocent  days,  when, 
seated  by  his  little  bed,  in  the  home  where  his  best  and  hap- 
piest hours  had  been  spent,  Bertha  Campbell  had  soothed  him 
to  sleep  with  the  soft  monotony  of  her  voice,  whilst  repeating 
the  hymns  which  suited  his  tender  age.  He  placed  himself 
opposite  to  her;  but  his  head  was  still  turned  aside.  It  might 
have  been  thought  that  he  was  watching  the  course  of  a  vessel 
dimly  seen  in  the  for  horizon, — but  that  it  passed  on,  and  still 
his  eye  remained  fixed  upon  the  same  point,  where  the  golden 
clouds  were  gathering  into  fantastic  masses  around  the  sinking 
sun. 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  seconds.  Much  that  was  to 
be  told  would  be  painful  both  to  relate  and  to  hear,  and  past 
events  seemed  crowded  together  inextricably  in  Bertha's  mind. 
"  I  must  go  back,"  she  said,  at  length,  ''  to  my  early  days, — 
the  days  when  I  first  lived  at  Encombe.  Perhaps  you  do  not 
know  that  it  is  my  native  place,  the  home  of  my  family  for 
many  generations.  We  lived  in  the  old  farm ;  it  was  a  Manor 
House  then ;  but  we  were  poor,  my  father  was  extravagant, 
and  we  could  not  keep  it  up  in  anything  like  a  fitting  style. 
General  Vivian  was  our  nearest  neighbor,  but  we  were  not 
friends  :  family  feuds,  dating  almost  a  century  back,  had  been 
handed  down  to  us,  and  General  Vivian  was  not  a  person  to 
let  them  sleep;  neither,  perhaps,  was  my  father.  General 
Vivian  was  a  careful,  cautious,  strict  man ;  he  had  but  one 
grand  object  in  life, — to  redeem  the  family  property,  which 
his  father's  extravagance  had  well  nigh  wasted :  he  devoted 
all  his  energies, — and  he  has  great  energies,  marvellous  ones, — 
to  this  purpose.  It  would  be  wrong  to  judge,  but  it  seems 
that  he  made  it  his  idol,  and,  because  it  was  a  noble  object, 
could  not  see  that  there  might  be  danger  in  it.  But  let  that 
be  as  it  may.  General  Vivian  saved  his  inheritance, — my  fatlier 
(brreited  his.     You  may  imagine  from  this  how  unlike  they 


CLEVE    HALL.  91 

wd-o,  riiid  how  little  tliey  could  understand  eaeli  other.  So, 
too,  Mrs.  Vivian  and  my  mother,  the  Miss  Vivians  and  my 
sister  and  I,  had  no  mutual  interests ;  and  distaste  became  dis- 
like, and  we  grew  up — I  don't  know  how — it  was  very  wrong 
— but  the  feeling  became  at  last  utter  aversion  in  all,  except 

"  Bertha's  voice  trembled,  and  the  concluding  wordt- 

of  the  sentence  were  inaudible. 

She  went  on  nervously, — "  My  sister  Flora  was  very  pretty 
and  attractive.  She  was  older  than  myself,  and  every  one  was 
accustomed  to  defer  to  her ;  perhaps  that  made  her  wilful ; 
my  father  especially  would  not  check  her  in  anything.  Gene- 
ral Vivian,  as  you  must  know,  bad  one  son,  a  very  engaging 
person,  generous  and  open-hearted,  but  utterly  thoughtless. 
Notwithstanding  the  family  differences,  we  met  him  occasionally 
in  walks  and  rides  ;  he  was  in  fact  almost  the  only  gentleman  we 
ever  saw,  and  perhaps  it  was  natural  enough  that  he  and  Flora 
should  become  attached  to  cacli  other.  But  there  was  nothing 
understood  or  acknowledged,  except  between  themselves  :  the 
General  would  have  been  fearfully  angry  if  the  notion  had  been 
suggested  to  him ;  his  wife,  the  only  person  who  might  have 
influenced  him,  was  just  dead  ;  and  my  father  and  mother 
were  too  much  occupied  with  the  pecuniary  difliculties,  which 
were  daily  increasing,  to  take  heed  to  any  lesser  matter.  I 
saw  what  was  going  on,  but  I  was  too  young  to  interfere.  Flora 
was  full  of  hope,  and  her  affections  were  very  strong,  whilst 
Mr.  Vivian  never  allowed  his  thoughts  to  dwell  upon  anything 
but  the  gratification  of  the  moment;  and,  at  length,  totally 
putting  aside  the  possibility  of  his  father's  disapprobation,  he 
persuaded  Flora  to  engage  herself  to  him  without  asking  the 
consent  of  her  own  parents  or  of  his.  They  kept  the  fact 
entirely  to  themselves,  and  all  that  I  saw  was  that  they  took 
every  opportunity  of  being  together,  and  that  when  separated 
j'lora's  spirits  entirely  sank.  This  made  me  very  anxious,  and 
I  was  secretly  glad,  for  her  sake,  when  at  length  it  was  deter- 
mined that  siie  should  leave  the  INIanor  House  for  a  time,  and 
go  abroad,  in  the  hope  of  enabling  my  father  to  retrieve  his 
affairs.  We  left  Encombe.  I  thought  I  was  only  going  for  a 
time ;  I  fancied  that  the  Manor  House  was  still  to  be  my  home. 
It  was  a  great  mercy  that  I  was  not  able  to  see  the  future. 
Yet  I  had  some  presentimeiit  of  evil;  I  could  scarcely  help  it ; 
Mora  was  so  dreadfully  miserable  at  the  thought  of  the  long 
absence.  Mr.  Vivian  saw  her  the  last  evening,  and  I  l)elieve 
the  promise  between  them  was  renewed;  Flora  was  then,  in  a 
5 


08  CLEVE    HALL. 

detrree,  cduifortod,  ami  we  set  out  on  our  journey  in  tolerablu 
spirits.  Our  first  rest,  for  any  lenoth  of  time,  was  at  a  German 
■watcrinQ:-placc,  small,  but  just  growing  into  fashion,  and  lilled, 
most  unhappily,  not  only  with  hotels  and  boarding-houses,  but 
gambling-houses.  My  father's  early  habits  liad  accustomed 
him  to  think  lightly  of  gambling,  and  it  soon  became  his  chief 
amusement.  He  would  never  play  high,  and  so  managed  to 
go  on  without  bringing  himself  into  any  great  difficulties;  but 
onr  home  became  the  resort  of  his  associates  at  the  gaming- 
table, and,  amongst  others,  of — Captain  Vivian." 

Ronald  started. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Bertha,  ''it  was  there,  Ronald,  that  my 
first  acquaintance  with  your  father  may  be  said  to  have  bi'gun. 
He  was  not  then  what  he  is  now ;" — her  voice  sank  as  she  said 
this,  and  Ronald  turned  away  his  face;  he  could  not  bear  its 
change  to  be  seen.     ^'  He  was  young,  handsome,  agreeable, 

"  she  hesitated,  and  repeated,  "  in  a  certain  way  he  was 

agreeable ;  he  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world,  and  was 
very  clever ;  he  could  tell  amusing  anecdotes  ;  gentlemen  espe- 
cially liked  him ;  they  did  not  eai-e  for  things  which  distressed 
Flora  and  me.  Dear  Ronald  !  you  must  forgive  me  if  I  speak 
too  freely." 

"  Say  what  you  will,"  he  replied,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  ''you 
cannot  tell  what  I  can." 

"  And  yet  in  some  way,  Ronald,  I  may  be  a  better,  a  more 
charitable  judge.  I  have  never  suffered  as  you  have;  at  least 
in  daily  life.  In  other  ways ; — but  you  must  let  me  go  on 
regularly.  I  had  seen  Captain  Vivian  before,  but  never  to 
know  him ;  in  fact,  I  was  too  much  of  a  child  to  be  brought 
in  contact  with  him.  He  claimed  acquaintance  with  us  as 
having  a  connexion  with  our  old  home;  his  father  and  Gene- 
ral Vivian  were  first  cousins.  I  did  not  know  then  that  all 
social  intercourse  between  the  two  branches  of  the  family  had 
ceased  for  some  yeare." 

"  For  thirty  years  the  General  has  been  too  proud  to 
acknowledge  us,"  exclaimed  Ronald  indignantly. 

"  Think  of  him  gently  and  justly,  Ronald,  if  you  can.  He 
may  have  feared  the  ae(piaintance  for  his  son.  If  he  did, 
events  have  proved  that  he  had  cause  to  do  so." 

"  My  father  might  not  have  been  what  he  is,  if  his  relations 
had  not  cast  him  off,"  replied  Ronald. 

''Perhaps  not;  one  cannot  say;"  and  Bertha's  thoughts 
reverted  to  Clement,  and  her  anxiety  lest  he  sh(mld  in  like  man- 


CLEVE    HALL.  99 

ner  be  discarded.  "  At  ttat  time,  wlien  we  met  in  Gcrmahy,  I 
fear  his  habits  were  too  deeply  rooted  to  be  altered.  We  saw 
a  grea£  deal  of  him.  Like  every  one  else,  he  admired  Flora, 
and,  to  my  dismay,  I  perceived  that  my  father  was  inclined  to 
encourage  him.  Ca^Jtain  Vivian  had  the  reputation  then  of 
being  rich,  and  probably  my  father  thought  that,  considering 
the  state  of  our  family  affairs,  it  would  be  a  desirable  marriage. 
At  all  events,  he  threw  them  constautly  together,  and  when, 
on  one  occasion,  I  expressed  my  dislike  to  the  society  which 
the  acquaintance  involved,  I  was  reproved,  and  told  that  I 
should  bring  myself  into  mischief  if  I  interfered  with  matters 
which  did  not  concern  me.  Things  went  on  in  this  way  fur 
some  time.  Flora  said  very  little.  I  was  sure  she  disliked 
Captain  Vivian,  but  she  had  not  courage  openly  to  thwart  my 
father's  wishes.  When  alone  she  was  very  miserable ;  when 
in  company  she  exerted  herself  so  as  to  be  the  life  of  the  party. 
No  one  really  knew  anything  about  her  feelings.  I  was  too 
young  to  have  her  confidence,  and  she  was  afraid  of  my  mother. 
Your  father  was  very  fond  of  her ;  and  when  I  saw  that,  I 
pitied  him,  for  I  felt  that  his  affection  could  never  be  returned. 
But  I  did  not  know  then  with  how  fixed  and  stern  a  resolution 
he  can  pursue  an  object  when  once  his  will  is  given  to  it.  He 
was  resolved  to  marry  Flora,  and  if,  instead  of  common  cold- 
ness, he  had  met  with  open  detestation,  I  believe  it  would  not 
have  made  him  swei've  a  hair's  breadth  from  his  determination. 
It  was  just  at  this  time,  after  the  separation  of  a  year,  that 
Mr.  Vivian  arrived  in  Germany,  on  his  way  to  Italy,  for  a 
summer  tour.  What  communication  had  been  kept  up  between 
him  and  Flora  in  that  interval  I  do  not  know.  Some  there 
certainly  must  have  been,  for  he  was  the  last  person  in  the 
world  to  bear  silence  and  suspense.  I  suspect  he  came  pre- 
pared for  the  state  of  affairs  which  I  have  described,  and 
determined  to  put  an  end  to  it.  But  it  was  by  no  means  an 
easy  task.  My  father's  feeling  against  General  Vivian  was  as 
inveterate  as  the  General's  against  him,  and  Mr.  Vivian  could 
with  difficulty  gain  admittance  to  the  house.  When  there,  he 
could  in  no  way  compete  with  his  cousin.  There  were  strong 
prejudices  against  him,  and  although  he  was  the  heir  of  Cleve, 
the  property  was  entirely  at  the  General's  disposal ;  and  he 
could  not  offer  anything  like  the  fortune  at  that  time  possessed 
by  Captain  Vivian.  Yet  I  imagine  that  even  from  the  first 
irioment  of  their  meeting,  your  father  felt  that  Flora's  choice 
was  made.     She  was,  indeed,  too  much  afraid  of  her  parents 


100  CLEVE    HALL. 

nponly  to  express  lier  preference;  but  even  wlion  sne  strove  to 
conceal  it,  it  showed  itself  in  innumerable  every-day  trifles. 
A  man  of  less  resolute  purpose  miiiht  have  drawn  back,  but 
Captain  Vivian  persisted  in  his  attentions,  and — "  Bertha 
hesitated,  and  her  words  came  with  difficulty. 

llonald  spoke  impatiently, — "  Go  on,  I  can  bear  all." 
"  I  don't  wish  to  give  you  pain  unnecessarily,"  she  replied. 
''No  pain  is  like  concealment,  INIiss  Campbell." 
"  And  perhaps,  in  some  ways,  what  I  have  said  may  be  an 
e.xcuse  for  Captain  Vivian,"  continued  Bertha.  "  He  had 
great  provocation, — some,  at  least ;  but  it  was  hard  to  take 
arlvantage  of  a  character  so  open  and  trusting  as  that  of  Edward 
Vivian.  Your  father  gambled,  llonald ;  he  made  Edward  do 
the  same ;  ho  led  him  on  step  by  step,  till  his  debts  became 
very  hea^y.  I  don't  like  to  think  it  was  done  purposely,  but 
it  appeared  like  it.  Certainly  he  made  use  of  Mr.  Vivian's 
weakness.  They  were  friends  all  this  time  outwardly.  I  think 
Mr.  Vivian  was  sorry  for  the  disappointment  of  your  father's 
affections :  and  havin<>:  no  fear  of  him  as  a  rival,  he  ";ave  him 
his  confidence,  and  consulted  him  in  his  difficulties.  Imme- 
diately afterwards,  by  some  means,  no  one  knew  how,  tidings 
of  Mr.  Vivian's  gambling  debts  reached  the  General.  He 
was  fearfully  angry.  1  saw  some  of  the  letters  which  passed ; 
IMr.  Vivian  showed  them  to  Flora.  He  was  full  of  repentance  ; 
but  habit  and  evil  companionship  were  too  strong  for  him,  and 
after  a  short  interval  he  returned  to  his  former  practices. 
Everything  was  made  known  to  the  General  through  some 
secret  channel,  and  when  still  more  indignant  reproaches  and 
threats  of  disinheritance  reached  Mr.  Vivian,  they  were  in  the 
same  way  communicated  to  my  father.  Poor  Edward  found 
himself  without  friends,  without  support;  it  was  very  much 
his  own  doing  ;  he  was  sadly,  sadly  weak,  but  all  turned  against 
him  : — even  the  persons  who  had  first  led  him  into  evil, — who 
were  still  encouraging  him  in  it; — for  I  know  that  at  this  very 
time  it  was  Captain  Vivian  who  enticed  him  again  and  again 
to  the  gaming-table,  and  laughed  at  him  when  he  would  have 
drawn  back." 

A  suppressed  groan  escaped  from  Ronald.  Bertha  went 
on  rapidly: — 

"  Perhaps  you  can  giiess  the  end  of  all  this.  Mr.  Vivian 
did  not  venture  to  propose  openly  for  my  sister,  knowing  the 
feeling  that  was  excited  against  him,  and  fearing  that  if 
lie   ?aid   anything,  my  father  would   forbid    him   the   hoiLse 


CLEVE    HALL.  101 

Fli^ra,  too,  was  very  unhappy,  from  various  causes.  She  luul 
to  bear  with  great  absence  of  sympathy  in  her  own  family,  and 
constant  fits  of  temper.  All  her  affectionate  feelings  were 
crushed  and  repelled ;  and  at  length,  in  a  moment  of  despera- 
tion, she  was  persuaded  to  marry  Edward  Vivian,  without  the 
knowledge  or  consent  of  her  parents.  It  was  a  fatal  step, 
Eonald,  and  most  bitterly  punished.  I  need  not  repeat- all 
that  took  place  in  consequence ;  it  would  not  be  important  to 
you,  and  it  is  only  miserable  for  me.  My  father,  in  his  anger, 
refused  to  hold  any  communication  with  them,  and  would  not 
advance  them  a  penny.  They  were  exiled  from  our  house, 
and  left  to  depend  upon  such  resources  as  might  be  obtained 
from  General  Vivian.  What  his  feelings  would  be,  it  remained 
to  be  shown.  Mr.  Vivian  wrote  himself;  acknowledging  his 
offence,  entreating  to  be  forgiven,  but  he  received  no  answer  : 
he  wrote  again,  and  still  there  was  delay.  At  length,  after 
the  lapse  of  several  weeks,  the  stern  decision  came,  in  a  few 
short,  cutting  sentences  from  the  General,  without  even  a  soft- 
ening word  from  Edward's  sisters,  and  only  one  heart-broken, 
reproachful  line  from  his  old  nurse,  Mrs.  Robinson ; — he  was 
disinherited." 

"But  my  father?"  exclaimed  Ptouald;  "he  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it  1" 

"  He  left  Germany  instantly,"  replied  Bertha,  ''when  the 
fact  of  my  sister's  marriage  was  known.  He  travelled  night 
and  day;  and  it  was  by  him  that  the  intelligence  was  made 
known  to  General  Vivian.  Goff,  who  had  been  in  Edward's 
service,  but  had  been  dismissed  for  dishonesty,  and  had 
afterwards  been  engaged  by  Captain  Vivian,  accompanied 
bim,  and  was  called  to  be  a  witness  to  the  truth  of  some  of 
his  statements.  All  this  I  first  knew  a  few  weeks  since,  in 
conversation  with  Mr.  Lester.  At  the  time  everything  was  a 
mystery,  and  there  was  no  one  to  clear  it  up.  My  own  family 
were  too  proud  and  too  angry  to  make  any  effort  for  reconci- 
liation ;  and  Edward  Vivian  had  no  friend  in  whom  he  could 
fill) fide,  except  Mr.  Lester,  who  had  formerly  been  his  tutor, 
but  who,  unfortunately,  was  at  that  time  travelling  in  tlie 
East.  No  one  was  surprised  at  the  General's  conduct;  it  was 
only  in  keeping  with  the  severity,  and  what  he  called  stiiet 
justice,  which  had  marked  him  through  life.  But  what  did 
ill  a  measure  astonish  both  Edward  and  our  own  family,  wluui 
(he  letters  were  sent  to  ns,  was  the  style  of  the  accusations 
!;  iiii'jl'l  !'<jrw;!i-(l.     Till!  (icncral  spoke  of  deadly  ingratitude. 


102  CLEVE    HALL. 

dislionor,  disuraoe  in  tlio  eyes  of  tlie  world,  and  a  false  use 
of  that  to  which  Kdward  had  no  claim,  except  at  his  father's 
pleasure.  Some  one  particular  offence  seemed  alluded  to,  but 
what  we  could  in  no  way  discover.  Certainly  Edward  h;id 
acted  very  wrongly,  and  had  shown  himself  most  lamentably 
weak;  but  there  had  been  nothing  in  the  least  approaching 
to  baseness.  Even  as  regarded  his  unhappy  gambling  debts, 
they  were  doubtless  large  for  his  income,  but  not  large  for 
the  General's  fortune ;  and  Edward  could  not  be  said  to  be  a 
practised  gambler;  he  had  been  led  into  the  sin  by  the  insti- 
gation of  others;  but  he  had  no  real  taste  for  it,  and  always 
refused  when  he  could  meet  with  any  one  to  support  him  ; — a 
weak  will  was  his  stumbling  block.  But  the  General  admitted 
no  extenuation,  lie  seemed  to  me,  then,  to  have  a  false  and 
iliost  exaggerated  view  of  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  and 
wrote  with  a  bitterness  which  was  absolutely  unchristian. 
jNIr.  Lester  has  talked  to  me,  Ronald ;  he  has  told  me  some 
things  which  took  place  then ;  I  fear  there  was  great  wrong 
done  by  misrepresentation,  if  not  by  anything  worse." 

"  And  by  my  father  ?"  murmured  Ronald. 

"  Mr.  Lester  says  so.  It  is  certain  that  all  General  Vivian's 
information  came  through  him;  and  —  oh!  Ronald,  forgive 
me  for  saying  it — but  1  know  that  a  large  sum  of  money,  very 
much  larger  than  the  amount  of  the  gambling  debts,  was  paid 
at  that  time  to  your  father  by  General  Vivian,  vinder  the 
belief  that  he  was  for  the  last  time  satisfying  the  claims  of 
his  son's  creditors.  When  Mr.  Lester  told  me  what  the 
amount  was,  expressing  himself  shocked  at  Edward's  reckless- 
ness, I  knew  at  once  that  there  must  have  been  some  wrong 
dealing  in  the  matter.  The  debts  were  not  a  fourth  part  of 
the  sum,  and  the  money  never  reached  Edward,  or  at  least 
only  a  veiy  small  portion  did.  So,  again,  Mr.  Lester  believed 
that  Edward  had  behaved  undutifully; — that  he  refused  to 
offer  an  apology,  or  make  the  least  submission  to  his  lather ; — • 
all  utterly  false.  He  wrote  again  and  again,  and  received  no 
•answer,  except  that  which  I  have  mentioned;  till  latterly, 
since  Mr.  Lester  came  to  Encombe,  Miss  Vivian  has  been 
allowed  to  write  to  him.  Ronald,  your  father  was  Edward 
Vivian's  deadly  enemy.  Can  you  forgive  me  for  suspecting 
him  ?" 

The  poor  boy  writhed  as  if  under  a  serpent's  sting.  Ber- 
tha laid  her  hand  affectionately  on  his  shoulder,  but  he  pushed 
it  aside  roughly,  and,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  muttered  "  go  on." 


CLEVE    HALL.  103 

"It  is  sucli  pain,  Ronald,  to  give  you  pain,"  said  Bortha. 

He  did  not  answer;  his  forehead  was  pressed  against  the 
wall  with  a  force  which  must  have  been  almost  torture. 

Bertha  seemed  doubtful  whether  she  might  venture  to  pro- 
ceed, but,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  slightly  changing 
the  subject,  she  continued  : — "  You  may  wonder  why,  if  there 
was  a  misunderstanding  of  the  truth,  so  many  years  should 
have  passed,  and  no  explanation  be  offered;  but  at  the  time 
neither  3Ir.  Vivian  nor  Flora  had  any  one  to  help  or  advise 
them.  They  were  left  to  poverty,  and  what  would  have  been 
utter  ruin,  but  for  the  interposition  of  an  ordinary  acquaint- 
ance, who  became  by  accident  acquainted  with  their  case,  and 
interested  himself  to  obtain  for  Edward  a  situation  in  the 
West  Indies.  They  sailed  without  a  parting  word  of  kindness 
from  us;  indeed  we  did  not  know  of  their  intentions  till  they 
were  gone.  Mj  sister  and  I  never  met  again ;  she  lies  in  a 
foreign  grave  ;" — Bertha's  voice  faltered,  and  Ronald  stealthily 
and  shyly  laid  his  rough  hand  upon  hers,  but  without  speaking. 

"  We  had  some  comfort  before  that  sorrow  came,"  continued 
Bertha.  "  Years  had  softened  the  feelings  of  my  father  and 
mother,  and  when  a  change  of  climate  became  necessary  for 
the  children,  they  consented  to  take  the  charge  of  them. 
Clement  and  Ella  came  to  us  first ;  then  the  little  ones.  There 
were  two  others,  who  died.  But  much  of  that  you  know,  for 
your  father  and  mother  settled  in  our  village  about  that  time. 
Your  father  I  hoped  had  recovered  his  disappointment.  We 
met  as  friends ;  for  I  did  not  then  understand  all  the  evil  he 
had  occasioned;  and  his  habits  of  life  were  not  such  as  to 
cause  an  entire  separation  between  the  families.  Your  mother, 
too,  had  been  my  friend  in  infancy,  and  clung  to  me  more  and 
more  closely  as  care  and  sorrow  gathered  around  her.  They 
were  trying  days,  Ronald,  but  they  brought  their  blessing 
with  them, — at  least  to  me.  It  was  my  joy  to  comfort  her, 
and  I  learnt,  for  her  sake,  to  bear  with  much  which  I  could 
not  have  borne  from  any  man  except  your  father.  My 
father  died  about  that  time,  and  my  mother  left  me  much  to 
myself,  so  that  I  was  able  to  be  with  Marian  a  great  deal ; 
and  though  your  father  openly  showed  his  dislike  to  me,  he 
never  actually  forbade  our  intimacy.  This  went  on  for  about 
eight  years,  till  your  mother  died,  and  your  father  left  the 
village.  Family  circumstances  have  not  changed  much  with 
us  since.  My  sister's  death  was  a  great  trial,  but  we  could 
i-carcely  grieve  for  her;  her  lot  was  a  very  hard  one.     They 


lot  CLEVE    HALL. 

were  miserably  poor,  and  I  am  afraid — marriap^o  boj;iniiin2 
wrongly  can  never  end  well — I  fear  she  Avas  nut  liai)i)y.  Ed- 
ward Vivian  has  always  been  restless;  longing  to  return  to 
England ;  yet  feeling  that  the  little  prospect  he  has  of  pro- 
viding for  his  children  would  be  gone  if  he  were  to  do  so. 
And  they  have  grown  up  without  knowing  him;  I  don't  think 
even  Ella  and  Clement  can  rec(jllect  him ;  and  so  there  is  the 
want  of  a  father's  authority.  It  is  all  very  sad.  But  it  might 
be  altered ; — I  think  so,  at  least,  llonald," — and  Bertha 
spoke  hurriedly  yet  earnestly, — "  you  might  do  much." 

He  stood  up  proudly;  the  marks  of  a  stern  self-control 
were  visible,  in  the  slight  frown  upon  his  forehead,  and  the 
compression  of  his  lips,  which  scarcely  parted  as  he  said  coldly, 
"  What  duty  does  Miss  Campbell  require  of  a  son  against  his 
father  V 

"  Not  against  your  father  I  God  forbid  !"  exclaimed  Bertha. 
''  But  oh  1  Ronald  !  if  injustice  has  been  done -" 

"It  shall  be  undone,"  he  replied,  firmly,  ''at  any 
sacrifice." 

Bertha  continued  : — "  ^ly  words  must  seem  harsh,  llonald  ; 
yet  I  would  serve  your  father  rather  than  injure  him.  I'lie 
time  indeed  is  so  long  past  that  it  might  be  very  difficult  to 
prove  what  we  suspect ;  but  if  the  attempt  were  made,  it  must 
be  followed  vip,  and  that  publicly — in  a  court  of  justice.  It 
might  be  madness  in  us,  but  it  would  be  eternal  disgrace  fur 
him.  Mr.  Lester  and  I  have  talked  over  the  matter  repeatedly. 
For  the  General's  sake,  we  dread  to  bring  forward  a  case 
which  we  could  not  prove.  It  would  recall  past  griefs,  and 
probably  cause  some  fatal  catastrophe.  Yet  we  cannot  let  the 
matter  rest ;  for  not  to  speak  is  Edward  Vivian's  ruin.  One 
idea  we  have  had  has  been  that  he  should  himself  return  to 
England  to  sift  the  matter;  but  there  are  many  objections  to 
this.  His  presence  might  irritate  the  general,  and  I  should 
dread  a  meeting  between  him  and  Captain  Vivian;  whilst 
even  to  enter  upon  the  subject  with  the  General,  in  order  to 
obtain  information,  seems  next  to  impossible,  though  we  have 
thought  of  it.  The  past  is  a  sealed  book :  not  even  to  his 
own  daughters  would  he  relate  the  particulars  of  all  that 
transpired  in  that  one  unhappy  interview  with  your  father; 
although  something  there  was  which  weighed  so  heavily  upon 
him  that  it  did  the  work  of  years  upon  his  frame.  IlonaM, 
your  father's  own  words  can  alone  throw  light  upon  thii 
mystery." 


CLEYE    HALL.  10[) 

Bertha  paused,  but  Ronald  stood  silent  as  thougli  some 
secret  power  had  paralyzed  him. 

"  I  do  not  see  the  way  to  obtain  them/'  she  added  ;  "  jei 
the  time  may  come,  conscience  may  one  day  waken ;  and, 
Ronald,  if  you  should  be  near  him  in  that  hour,  I  con- 
jure you,  by  all  that  you  hold  most  sacred,  remember  your 
promise." 

He  sank  upon  the  bench,  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

Bertha  drew  near  and  spoke  anxiously:  —  "It  is  not 
Oiraiust  your  father  that  I  would  for  worlds  wish  you  to  act; 
but  you  may  lead  him,  urece  him,  to  acknowledge  if  he  has  in 
any  way  done  Edward  Vivian  wrong  by  false  words.  His 
own  confession  would  never  be  turned  against  him,  except  so 
far  as  it  might  restore  Edward  to  General  Vivian's  favor. 
And  you  may  stand  in  the  way  between  your  father  and 
Clement.  Pie  hates  Clement.  He  is  the  child  of  the  woman 
who  rejected  him.  Save  the  poor  boy  from  his  temptations, 
and  God  may  in  mercy  bless  your  work,  and  withdraw  the 
curse  which  must  now  rest  upon  the  man  who  labored  for 
another's  ruin." 

A  convulsive  shudder  passed  over  Ronald's  frame,  and 
then  he  became  motionless. 

"  Ronald,"  said  Bertha,  as  she  bent  over  him,  ''  it  is  all 
biit  your  mother's  voice  which  bids  you  take  courage  and  be 
comforted." 

The  words  were  powerless.  She  heard  him  murmur  to 
himself, — "The  curse;  the  curse."  And  again  he  groaned 
in  anguish. 

"To  be  redeemed  b}'  you,  as  it  would  have  been  by  hei"," 
continued  Bertha. 

"  She  was  an  angel,"  he  exclaimed,  starting  up,  with 
A  vehemence  which  might  have  caused  a  less  firm  heart  than 
Bertha's  to  tremble  at  the  storm  of  feeling  she  was  awaken- 
ing; "and  I" 

"  You  may  be  one,  Ronald, — even  more"- 


His  bitter  laugh  rang  sharply,  hopelessly,  on  the  ear. 

"  Go,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  talk  to  others,  preach,  labor  ; 
there  are  hundreds  to  listen ;  your  words  are  wasted  on  me, — 
the  outcast !" 

"An  outcast?  so  young,  so  misled!  oh,  Ronald!  never, 
never !" 

"  You  know  not  to  whom  you  speak,"  he  continued,  his 
voice  assuming  a  tone  of  fierce  sarcasm,  more  terrible  than  tlie 


lOG  CLEVE    HALL, 

outburst  of  passion.  "  Have  you  lived  the  life  which  I  have 
lived  ?  seen  what  I  have  seen  ?  known  what  I  have  known  't 
Go  I  Let  me  bo  what  I  am  doomed  to  be." 

''  llonald,  I  do  not  know,  God  forbid  that  I  ever  should 
Know,  the  secrets  of  such  scenes  as  you  have  been  accustomed 
to;  but  this  I  know,  that  were  they  the  blackest  and  deadliest 
which  the  human  heart  could  conceive,  there  must  be  hope 
Hud  the  certain  prospect  of  escape,  whilst  the  feeling  of  hur- 
TDr  at  them  remains." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

*'  It  is  from  God,"  continued  Bertha  soothingly,  '^  from 
His  Spirit ;  it  is  the  call  to  repentance, — the  answer  to  your 
mother's  prayers." 

"And  to  my  father's  deeds,  in  which  I  have  joined,"  ho 
said,  in  a  tone  like  the  underswell  of  the  sea.  Then,  uncover- 
ing his  face,  he  gazed  upon  her,  calmly  and  steadily,  and 
added: — "  Miss  Campbell,  you  need  not  fear.  Whatever  may 
be  my  own  course,  justice  shall  one  day  be  done."  He  stood, 
intending  to  leave  her.     Bertha  detained  him. 

*'  llonald,  you  must  not  and  shall  not  go.  I  have  a  claim 
that  you  should  listen  to  me,  for  I  was  your  mother's  friend, 
her  only  one.  It  was  to  me  she  made  her  last  request, — that, 
as  God  should  grant  me  the  power,  I  would  watch  over  her 
boy.     In  her  name  I  require  you  now  to  hearken  to  me." 

He  sat  down,  not  sullenly,  but  as  if  in  a  stupor. 

"  I  know  your  purpose,"  continued  Bertha,  her  tone 
becoming  sevei"3  in  its  deep  earnestness ;  "■  you  will  from  this 
night  bend  all  the  energies  of  your  mind  to  discover  and 
counteract  the  evil  which  your  father  has  caused ;  most 
earnestly,  most  entirely,  I  thank  and  trust  you.  But  there 
are  two  ways  open  before  you  : — in  the  one  you  may  accomplish 
your  work  and  be  yourself  saved ;  and  in  the  other  you  may 
perform  it  and  be  lost.  And  Ronald,  intensely  though  I  long 
for  the  reconciliation  and  restoration  of  Edward  Vivian  and 
his  family, — though  it  is  the  one  object  for  which  it  seems 
now  that  I  have  to  live, — I  would  rather  see  them  struggle  on 
in  poverty  and  sorrow  for  years,  and  suffer  myself  with  them, 
than  I  would  know  that  any  woi'd  of  mine,  or  any  efforts  for 
them,  had  led  you  even  one  step  on  the  way  which  must  tend 
to  destruction.  Ronald,  you  may  labor  in  proud  despair,  or 
in  humble  hope.     If  you  are  proud,  you  are  lost." 

"  Proud  !"  he  repeated,  bitterly  and  doubtfully. 


CLEVE   HALL.  107 

"  Yes,  little  tliou2;li  you  may  think  it,  pride  is  3rour  snare, 
i'ou  will  work  for  others ;  you  will  not  work  for  yourself." 

'^  I  may  save  others,  I  cannot  save  myself,"  he  replied,  in 
a  softened  tone. 

''  You  cannot  save  others  except  by  saving  youi-self.  Y^ou 
wish  to  aid  Clement :  you  can  have  no  right  influence,  you 
can  give  nothing  but  an  inconsistent  example,  unless  your 
actions  are  grounded  upon  right  motives ;  the  most  deceitful 
of  all  motives  is  pride,  and  its  end  is  despair." 

"Then  I  have  reached  the  end,"  he  said,  sternly. 

"  No,  Ronald,  impossible.  Let  the  past  be  what  it  may, 
even  in  old  age  it  is  retrievable, — how  much  more  so  in 
youth !" 

"I  have  known  no  youth,"  he  replied;  'Hhe  sins  of  my 
childhood  have  been  the  sins  of  a  man,  and  my  punishment 
must  be  the  punishment  of  a  man." 

"And  your  strength  will  be  the  strength  of  a  man,"  an- 
swered Bertha ;  "  the  firm  resolution,  the  unshaken  will " 

"  Which  is  pride,"  he  said,  quickly. 

"  Pride,  when  we  rest  upon  it  as  our  own  ;  faith,  when  we 
seek  it  from  Glod.     Ronald,  do  you  ever  pray  ?" 

He  answered  abruptly,  and  yet  not  angrily, — "  lu  storms, 
on  the  ocean,  in  the  face  of  death,  yes,  I  have  prayed  then." 

"  But  in  quietness  and  solitude  ?  In  your  own  chamber  ? 
calmly,  thoughtfully,  regularly  1" 

He  smiled  as  in  scorn  at  the  question. 

"  Your  mother  prayed,  Ronald ;  will  not  you  ?" 

"  She  prayed  because  she  was  fit  to  pray." 

"  And  you  will  pray  because  you  would  become  fit, — ■ 
because  there  are  dangers  sun-ounding  you,  only  to  be  con- 
quered by  self-restraint,  watchfulness,  earnestness,  purity, 
faith ;  and  you  are  reckless,  proud,  full  of  sinful  memories, 
bowed  down  by  a  burden  of  past  ofl"ences.  You  will  pray 
because  you  long  for  pardon,  for  the  knowledge  that  the  love 
of  a  Heavenly  Father  will  be  with  you,  to  guard  you  from 
the  influence  of  an  earthly  one.  You  will  pray,  because  with- 
out prayer  life  must  be  misery,  and  death  despair.  Oh, 
Ronald  !  will  you  not  do  as  your  mother  did?" 

He  made  no  reply;  he  even  moved  away,  and  Bertha  was 
left  for  a  few  moments  alone.  She  knelt  in  the  old  church 
porch,  and  a  prayer  rose  up  to  Heaven  in  the  stillness  of  that 
siumiDer  evening — a  prayer  for  one  amongst  the  lost  sliecsp, 
the  erring  and  the  straying,  who  had  left  undoius  those  (hing.s 


108  CLEVE    HALT;. 

wliicli  thoy  oiitrht  to  have  done,  and  liad  dono  those  thiim-i 
■ivhich  they  ought  not  to  have  done,  and  in  whom  there  wan 
no  healtli ;  and  even  as  it  was  uttered,  llonahl  stood  at  a  dis- 
tance, too  self-distrustful  to  own  liis  feelings,  too  shy  to  express 
tliem  in  action,  yet  praying  also  with  uncovered  head  and 
closed  eyes,  humbly  and  earnestly,  for  grace  that  might  enable 
him  hereafter  to  live  a  godly,  righteous,  and  sober  life,  to  the 
glory  of  God's  holy  Name. 

They  stood  together  again  in  the  entrance  of  the  porch. 
Twilight  was  gathering  around,  though  the  light  y<5t  glowed 
brilliantly  in  the  far  west. 

Ronald  broke  the  silence  : — "  Miss  Campbell,  you  must 
pray  for  me,  and  your  prayere  will  be  heard." 

"  All  earnest  prayers  are  heard,  llonald ;  especially  those 
of  the  sorrowful  and  penitent.     But  you  will  act  too  V 

"  I  don't  know  how;  it  is  all  chaos." 

"  But  the  first  steps  are  plain  :  no  sinful  words,  restraint 
over  your  temper,  a  refusal  to  join  in  intemperance " 

"  Yes,  plain  ;" — he  seemed  pondering  the  word  doubtfully. 

"  And  practicable.  What  ought  to  be  can  be, — only  pray." 
She  smiled,  and  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  raised  it  respect- 
fully to  his  lips. 

lie  did  not  see  the  tear  which  glistened  in  her  eye,  as  she 
loft  him  under  the  old  church  porch,  the  faint  gleams  of  the 
fretting  sun  gilding  his  tall  fisrirc. 


CIIAPTEll  XIV. 


''  A  NOTE  for  you,  Ella ;"  and  Eachel  Lester  ran  into  the 
j\_  school-room  at  the  Lodtre,  holding  a  little  twisted  paper 
between  her  fingers.  ''But  I  beg  pardon;  I  forgot,  I  mustn't 
interrupt.     How  busy  you  all  are  this  morning  !" 

"  Ella  has  been  strict  all  the  week,"  said  Fanny,  looking 
up  from  her  writing;   "and  it's  dreadful  work,  Eachel." 

"  Oh,  no,  Fanny,"  exclaimed  Rachel ;  and  she  went  round 
and  stood  behind  the  child's  chair,  and  offered  to  mend  her 
pen.  "I  know  you  don't  like  lessons  half  as  well  when  ihej 
are  not  regular ;   I  am  sure  I  don't." 


CLEVE   HALL.  109 

"  But  it  wou't  last,"  said  Louisa,  with  a  knowing  nod,  wliicli 
Almost  upset  the  gravity  of  Rachel's  face. 

''  I  don't  know  why  you  are  to  say  that,  Louisa,"  said  Ell;v ; 
"  you  know  we  are  always  regular  when  there  are  no  interrup- 
tions." 

"  Somehow  interruptions  come  every  day,"  persisted  Louisa. 

"  I  have  brought  them  to-day,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Rachel. 
"  This  note  is  from  your  Aunt  Mildred,  I  think,  Ella." 

Ella  read  her  note  with  an  air  of  importance,  and  stood 
gazing  upon  it  afterwards,  as  if  there  was  some  weighty  matter 
to  be  determined. 

Louisa  held  up  her  exercise  book,  and  said, — "  Just  look 
it  over,  please,  Ilachel.  Ella  wou't  now,  she's  busy;"  and 
Rachel  went  to  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"  I  will  attend  to  the  exercise,  thank  you,  Rachel,"  said 
Ella,  looking  round  quickly.  She  was  very  jealous  of  her  owu 
authority,  probably  because  she  felt  that  it  rested  on  an  inse- 
cure foundation. 

Rachel  sat  down,  and  began  to  read;  and  Louisa  and  Fanny 
glanced  at  each  other,  and  made  a  sign  intended  to  show  that 
a  storm  was  impending. 

"  I  must  go  to  grandmamma,"  said  Ella,  in  a  tone  of  digui- 
6ed  self-consciousuess.  She  moved  to  the  door  with  her  usual 
languid  pace. 

"  When  am  I  to  see  you  again,  Ella?"  asked  Rachel. 

"  And  what  are  we  to  do  about  our  lessons  ?  we  have  just 
liuished  our  exercises,"  inquired  Fanny,  fretfully. 

"  My  dear,  I  can't  attend  to  you ;"  and  Ella  walked  out  of 
the  room,  without  answering  Rachel's  question. 

Rachel  could  not  help  feeling  annoyed.  She  had  some 
special  messages  to  give  from  her  papa,  and  she  was  not  to  go 
back  without  having  them  answered ;  and  this  delay  would  be 
very  inconvenient,  for  she  had  several  things  to  prepare  for 
Rertha,  who  gave  her  German  lessons  tliree  times  a  week. 

The  children  were  provoked,  too.  They  liked  regularity, 
even  when  they  complained  of  it ;  and  although  they  seized 
upon  the  excuse  to  go  on  with  some  new  story  books,  they  were 
by  no  means  comfortable. 

Ella  went  to  her  grandmamma's  room.  Bertha  was  there, 
and  she  drew  back. 

"Come  in,  Ella;  what  do  you  want?"  How  chilling  the 
tone  of  voice  was  !  How  utterly  unlike  the  sympathizing  ten- 
derness which  had  touched  Ronald's  better  feelings  ! 


1  !  0  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  I  want  to  8poak  to  grandinamiiia,"  said  Ella. 

"Do  you,  my  <larling ?  Oh,  then,  liertha,  these  things 
can  wait;"  and  Mrs.  Campbell  pointed  to  a  pile  of"  account 
books. 

"  Betsey  is  going  to  Clcve^  and  .she  ought  to  pay  the  books," 
replied  Bertha. 

"  Not  to-day ;  she  miist  irait.  There  will  be  another  oppor- 
tunity, I  dare  say,  to-morrow." 

"  Couldn't  you  leave  what  you  liave  to  say,  Ella,  till  the 
children's  lessons  are  finished  V  asked  Bertha. 

"It  won't  take  two  minutes,"  said  Ella,  "Grandmamma, 
I  have  had  a  note  from  Aunt  Mildred." 

"  We  know  all  about  that,  Ella,"  observed  Bertha;  "grand- 
mamma heard  from  your  aunt  yesterday  herself." 

"  Then,  grandmamma,  when  am  I  to  go?" 

"  There  is  no  hurry  about  settling  the  time  now,  Ella.  The 
accounts  must  be  finished  first." 

"But  I  must  know,  because  of  getting  my  things  ready; 
and  Aunt  Mildred  begs  me  to  write  and  tell  her." 

"We  will  talk  about  it,  Ella,  my  dear;  we  will  see  about 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Campbell,  nervously. 

"  But  by-and-by  will  do  just  as  well,"  remarked  Bertha. 
"  It  is  not  a  matter  of  consequence  whether  you  go  one  day  or 
another,  Ella." 

"  If  I  don't  go  this  week  the  fine  weather  may  be  gone  ; 
and  Aunt  Mildred  wouldn't  like  me  to  be  there  when  it  is  wet," 
said  Ella. 

"  But  an  hour  can't  make  any  difference,"  continued 
Bertha;  "and  Betsey  must  go  to  Cleve  this  morning." 

"  Mr.  Lester's  cook  will  be  going  to-morrow,  Louisa  says," 
replied  Ella;  "she  would  pay  the  books." 

Bertha's  temper  was  irritated  to  the  utmost  extent  of  for- 
bearance. She  gathered  the  account  books  together,  without 
trusting  herself  with  another  word. 

"  You  can  tell  Betsey  to  wait,  and  come  back  to  me  your- 
self, presently,  Bertha,"  said  Mrs.  Campbell,  making  a  com- 
promise with  her  conscience,  as  Bertha  was  going  away. 

The  door  dosed,  not  quite  gently,  and  Ella  sat  down  by 
her  grandmamma,  and  muttered,  "  Aunt  Bertha  is  so  dreadfully 
goon  put  out." 

Perhaps  it  was  not  quite  wise  in  Bertha  to  do  as  she  did, — 
go  to  the  school-room — it  might  have  been  better  for  Ella's 
misdeeds  to   bear  th.eir  own   fruit, — but    regidaritj^  was   her 


CLEVE  HALL.  Ill 

mania,  and  she  felt  that  the  children  were  becoming  irregular 
Kachel  ran  up  to  her  as  she  entered  the  room :  "  Dear  Miss 
Campbell !  I'  wanted  to  see  you  so  much ;  I  have  a  message 
from  papa." 

Bertha  had  felt  lonely  and  dispirited  just  before,  but  that 
oright  face,  and  the  musical  voice,  and  loving  accent,  had  an 
influence  which  she  could  not  withstand.  Yet  she  was  cold 
still ;  she  would  have  appeared  so  at  least  to  those  who  did  not 
comprehend  her.  "  Wait  one  moment,  dear  Rachel.  Children, 
what  are  you  about  ?" 

"  Reading  till  Ella  comes  back,"  said  Louisa. 

"  Put  away  your  books,  and  tell  me  what  you  have  to  do." 

"  I  have  an  hour's  music  to  practise,"  said  Fanny,  mourn- 
fully. 

"  Well,  then,  set  about  it  at  once.     And  Louisa?" 

"  Oh  !  a  great  many  things,"  said  Louisa,  carelessly. 
"  French  dictation,  and  geography,  and  lessons  for  to-morrow, 
and  reading  history,  and  sums.  I  shan't  have  done  till  I 
don't  know  what  o'clock." 

''Then  begin  something  directly.  Where  is  your  slate? 
Show  me  what  sum  you  are  doing." 

"  Ella  was  explaining  to  me  about  decimal  fractions,  last 
time,"  said  Louisa. 

"  Decimal  fractions !  nonsense !  where  did  you  leave  off 
with  me  ?  The  rule  of  three; — rthere,  take  that  sum,  No.  19, 
and  work  it  while  I  am  here.  Not  a  word  to  be  spoken,  re- 
member. Now,  Rachel ;"  and  Bertha .  opened  the  window, 
and  stepped  out  tipon  the  little  lawn,  followed  by  Rachel. 

"  I  won't  keep  you  a  minute,  at  least  not  many,  dear  Miss 
Campbell,"  began  Rachel. 

"  Never  mind,  I  have  time  to  spare ;  Ella  won't  be  back 
Bgain  for  the  next  half-hour;"  and  Bertha  sighed. 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  and  I  wish — "  Rachel  hesitated 
— "  I  wish  Ella  didn't  trouble  you." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  her,"  said  Bertha,  shortly. 

Rachel  was  thrown  back,  and  ventured  upon  no  more  ex- 
pressions of  sympathy.  "  Papa  says,  dear  Miss  Campbell, 
that  he  wants  you  to  come  up  and  see  him  this  evening  ;  he 
wiinted  to  know  if  perhaps  you  would  c(jme  and  drink  tea 
with  me;  but  he  mayn't  be  at  home  till  late  himself.  He  has 
Beveral  poor  people  lo  see,  and  he  may  be  kept." 

"  Yes,  I  will  come,  certainly."  Quite  different  Bertha's 
fieccnt  was  then ;  there  was  even  a  tone  of  excitement  in  it. 


112  CLEVE   HALL. 

llaeliel's  qniuk  ear  caujilit  tlic  cliango. 

"  Dear  IMiss  Campbell,  may  I  say  oue  tliiiii;-  iiiore  to  you? 
Perliaps  it  is  not  exactly  the  right  time,  but  if  you  could  .spare 
nie  a  lew  moments." 

"  As  many  as  you  like." 

"  And  you  won't  be  offended  ?" 

*'  I  don't  think  I  could  be  offended  at  anything  you  •woul'l 
.siy,  llachel." 

"  Because  you  are  so  kind,  and  make  allowances  for  me  • 
but  I  am  half  afraid  of  this."  Her  color  went  and  came 
very  quickly,  and  she  stopped  for  some  seconds,  and  at  last 
Haid, — "  Oh,  Miss  Campbell,  I  do  so  wish  every  one  was  com- 
fortable." 

"  A  universal  wish,  at  least,  Rachel." 

"  Oh,  no  I"  exclaimed  llachel ;  "  it  can't  be ;  at  least — I 
don't  mean  to  be  rude — but  if  every  one  wished  it,  every  one 
would  be." 

"Not  quite,"  replied  Bertha;  ''God  sends  afflictions." 

"  But  those  would  not  make  one  uncomfortable,  would  they  ? 
but  unhappy.  And,  do  you  know,  I  think  it  is  much  worse  to 
be  uncomfortable  than  unhappy." 

Bertha  could  not  help  laughing.  "  Well,  perhaps  it  maj 
be, — though  it  is  not  the  general  view  of  the  case.  But  you. 
have  nothing  to  make  you  uncomfortable,  Rachel  ?" 

"  Not  at  home,  and  I  never  used  to  have  anywhere." 

"  Till  we  came  here,"  said  Bertha. 

Rachel  hesitated  a,  little.  "  I  suppose,  where  there  are  so 
many  people,  things  must  be  more  uncomfortable;  but  I  am 
very  sorry  about  it,  and  I  should  like  so — it  came  into  my 
head  that  perhaps  you  could  tell  me  something  to  do  to  help 
make  them  less  so.  You  know  I  am  going  to  be  confirmed  in 
October." 

•"  Are  you  ?  I  didn't  know  it;  but  what  has  that  to  do  with 
your  being  confirmed  V 

''  Nothing  exactly;  only  thinking  about  that  put  the  othei 
into  my  head.  Papa  says  it  is  a  great  starting  point  in  life, 
and  that  I  am  to  think  over  all  my  duties,  and  see  how  I  can 
perform  them  better  than  I  have  done.  And  he  told  me  to 
think  about  what  I  did  and  said  with  my  companions,  and  to 
consider  whether  I  coidd  make  things  better  in  any  way.  That 
was  what  reminded  me  of  being  uncomfortable, — for  I  don't 
think  Ella  is  comfortable,  and  I  don't  think  I  am  when  I  am 
tt'ith  her." 


CLEVE    HALL.  113 

''Eila  is  a  very  difBcult  person  to  live  with,"  said  Bcrtlia. 

"She  is  Dever  two  days  alike,"  continued  llachcl.  "Th:it 
puzzles  uie;  because  when  I  think  I  know  how  to  get  on  with 
her,  she  turns  round  and  is  qxiite  different." 

*'  She  is  a  genius/'  said  Bertha,  rather  bitterly,  '^  and  so 
she  has  been  spoilt." 

llachel  was  thoughtful.  '■'■  I  used  to  think,"  she  said,  ''that 
it  would  be  veiy  delightful  to  be  exceedingly  clever,  but  I 
don't  think  I  do  now." 

'■'■  Cleverness  is  all  very  well,"  said  Bertha ;  "  but  it  is  good 
for  nothing  if  people  can't  govern  themselves." 

"  But  clever  people  always  do  so  much  in  the  world,"  saiO 
Bachel. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  Rachel.  The  hard  work  of  the 
world  is  done  by  straightforward  goodness,  not  by  talent.  Ella 
will  never  do  anj'thing." 

''  You  always  say  that,"  said  Bachel ;  "  and  it  makes  me 
unhappy." 

"  1  say  it,  because  I  think  it,"  replied  Bertha.  "  Louisa  is 
twice  as  useful  as  Ella  now." 

"  And  you  don't  know  any  way  in  which  I  could  help  Ella 
to  be  more  useful  ?"  asked  Rachel,  the  colour  rushing  to  her 
temples,  as  she  added, — "  It  sounds  conceited,  but  papa  told 
me  I  was  to  tiy." 

"  You  will  be  cleverer  than  I  am,  if  you  can  find  out,"  re- 
plied Bertha. 

"  Aunt  Mildred  says,"  continued  Rachel,  "  that  if  we  want 
to  lead  people  any  pai-ticular  way,  we  must  begin  by  going  two 
steps  with  them,  and  then  we  may  be  able  to  persuade  them 
to  go  one  step  with  us." 

Bertha  shook  her  head ;  it  sounded  like  a  dangerous  max- 
im ;  at  any  rate  she  was  not  accustomed  to  it. 

"  I  don't  mean  two  wrong  steps,  of  course,"  pursued  Ra- 
chel, reading  the  doubtful  expression  of  Bertha's  countenance  ; 
"and  Aunt  Mildred,  when  she  said  it,  told  me  I  was  not  to 
trnuble  my  head  about  it  now,  because  I  have  enough  to  do  to 
li;ad  myself;  but  that  it  might  be  useful  to  remember  when  I 
grew  up.  I  could  not  help  thinking  about  it,  though,  a  little, 
when  p;ipa  talked  to  me  about  being  useful,  and  setting  a 
good  example;  and  at  last  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would 
ask  you  if  you  could  tell  me  anything  in  which  I  went  against 
I'^lla.  I  am  very  nearly  sure  I  do  sometimes,  without  mcaii- 
in'_'  it." 


114  CLEVE   HALL. 

'' Slie  goes  afjaiiist  herself,"  replied  Bertha.  "There  in 
nothint;;  to  be  done  with  persons  who  do  that." 

"  And  yoii  don't  think  it  is  my  fault  T' 

"  No,  dear  llachcl,  what  coiild  make  yoix  think  it  was  ?" 

"Because,  do  you  know,  Miss  Campbell,  I  can't  help  look- 
ing up  to  Ella;  and  so,  when  things  go  wrong,  I  can't  help 
fancying  the  fault  must  be  mine." 

"  As  to  cleverness,"  said  Bertha,  "  every  one  must  look  up 
to  her." 

"And  she  has  such  grand  notions,"  continued  llachel. 
"  I  think  sometimes  she  would  have  been  such  a  great  person 
if  she  had  been  a  man ;  and  that  perhaps  the  misfortune  is 
her  being  a  woman.  Would  she  have  been  better  as  a  man, 
do  you  think  ?" 

"  Really,  dear  Rachel,  I  never  troubled  myself  to  think. 
I  believe  we  are  all  best  as  God  has  made  us." 

"  But  such  a  great  mind  seems  shut  up  in  a  woman's  body," 
said  Rachel,  laughing. 

"  It  is  not  a  great  mind,  Rachel.  Great  minds  do  great 
things." 

"  Ella  begins  a  great  many,"  said  Rachel. 

"  But  she  does  not  finish  them.  A  thing  is  not  done  till 
it  is  finished."  A  smile  crossed  Bertha's  face  as  she  said  tliis, 
and  she  added  : — "  That  is  a  truism,  at  least  it  sounds  like 
one ;  but  I  am  sure  half  the  world  forget  it.  And  then  peo- 
ple go  shares  with  others  in  their  duties,  and  so  deceive-  them 
sebj-es.     Ella  goes  shares  with  you,  Rachel." 

"  How  ?    1  don't  understand  !"' 

"  She  has  grand  notions  of  what  is  right,  and,  when  the 
fit  is  upon  her,  she  forms  beautiful  plans  of  duty,  and  begins 
them;  but  she  grows  tired  of  them,  and  leaves  you  or  the 
children  to  finish  them.  Then  she  has  a  vague  idea  that  be- 
cause they  arc  done  by  some  one,  it  is  the  same  as  if  they 
were  done  by  her.  All  this  is  terrible  self-deception.  It  will 
be  her  ruin  if  it  is  allowed  to  go  on." 

"And  I  can't  do  anything,  then?"  said  Rachel,  sadly. 

"  I  suppose  we  all  do  something  when  we  attend  to  our 
own  duties,"  replied  Bertha.  "  Ella  would  be  much  worse  if 
it  were  not  for  you.'' 

"But,  about  going  two  steps  with  her?"  said  Rachel, 
thoughtfully.  "  Can't  yuu  tell  me  what  Aunt  Mildred  means 
by  that?" 

"I  don't  understand  how  we  are  to  go  two  steps  with  any 


CLEVE    HALL.  115 

one  wlio  is  going  the  wrong  way,"  said  Bertlia,  rather  shortly. 
''  I  think,  Rachel,  you  had  better  leave  Ella  to  herself." 

llachel's  was  a  very  wafni  heart,  and  there  was  an  innate 
truthfulness  in  her  character,  which  was  her  bond  of  sym- 
pathy with  Bertha.  It  kept  her  now  from  being  iitterly 
repelled ;  but  it  was  very  trying  to"  give  confidence,  and  seek 
it,  and  find  nothing  in  return.  She  walked  on,  silent  and  dis- 
appointed. Bertha's  heart  smote  her ;  and  something  whis- 
pered to  her  that  she  did  not  care  to  talk  about  Ella,  or  try  to 
improve  her,  and  that  she  ought  to  do  so, 

''Don't  go,  Rachel  dear,"  she  said,  as  Rachel  turned  into 
the  path  to  the  rectory.     ''  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  ?" 

"  Nothing,  thank  you.  But  you  will  come  and  drink  tea 
this  evening?" 

"  Yes,  and  shall  Ella  come  too  ?"  It  was  a  great  effort 
for  Bertha  to  propose  this.  She  did  not  wish  it  at  all,  but  it 
was  an  amends  to  her  conscience.  A  few  moments  before 
Rachel  would  have  said  that  it  would  be  pleasanter  to  have  a 
quiet  hour  alone  with  Miss  Campbell,  but  she  did  not  feel 
that  now.  She  only  thought  herself  very  stupid  in  having 
mentioned  Ella's  name. 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,"  she  replied ;  "  you  know  we  drink 
tea  at  half-past  six,  so  you  will  be  back  in  time  to  read  to  Mrs. 
Campbell.  Papa  has  altered  the  hour,  because  of  having  to 
go  across  the  hills,  nearly  every  day,  to  see  poor  little  Barney 
Wood.  Do  you  know.  Miss  Campbell," — and  Rachel  became 
animated  in  the  consciousness  that  she  was  going  to  say  some- 
thing agreeable, — "Ronald  Vivian  has  been  so  kind  to  Bar- 
ney ;  he  has  cut  him  out  a  little  ship,  and  he  goes  to  read  to 
him  sometimes.     Isn't  it  good  of  him  ?" 

Bertha  kissed  Rachel ; — that  was  her  answer;  and  Rachel 
ran  away,  feeling  that  she  had  in  some  unknown  way  made 
her  peace. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


T^LTiA  deceived  herself;  but  so  also  did  Bertha  Campbell. 

J   Was  that  possible? — so  strict  as  Bertha  was  in  her  self- 

/xaiiiination,  so  very  rigid  both  in  the  theory  and  the  practice 


116  CLEVE    HALL, 

of  (liity,  ami  above  all  so  vciy  true  bjtii  bv  ntturc  and  long 
habit. "' 

"  Tlie  heart  is  deceitful  above  all  things." 

This  is,  of  course,  peculiarly  true  of  the  affections,  espe- 
cially when  the  feeling  nursed  is  the  one  gentle  point  in  a 
character  otiierwise  unyielding.  But  the  expression  must 
include  also  the  whole  bent  and  dispositio.i  of  the  mind.  The 
one  object  which  we  love,  or  for  the  success  of  which  we 
labor,  be  it  ever  so  pure,  ever  so  disinterested, — human 
friendship, — a  work  of  benevolence, — the  carrying  out  of 
some  noble  principle, — that  is  our  temptation.  If  we  do  not 
watch,  and  strive,  and  continually  balance  it  l>y  other  claims, 
it  will  one  day  be  the  cause  of  our  fall. 

This  seems  to  be  the  secret  of  much  of  that  inconsistency 
which  is  a  stumbling-block  to  the  young  in  the  characters  of 
those  whom  they  are  taught  to  reverence.  Good  men  devote 
themselves  to  the  support  of  a  theory,  or  to  the  advancement 
of  some  definite  object,  and,  unconsciously  to  themselves,  it 
too  often  takes  the  place  of  God.  The  range  of  their  sympa- 
thies, and  consequently  of  the  virtues  they  practise,  is  nar- 
rowed, and  others  see  with  surprise,  and  often  consternation, 
that  whilst  professing  the  very  highest  principles,  and  devoting 
themselves  to  the  very  noblest  purposes,  they  can  yet  utterly 
overlook  the  simplest  and  most  obvious  duties. 

Thus  it  was,  at  least  in  a  degree,  with  Bertha  Campbell. 
Naturally  warm-hearted,  yet  painfully  reserved,  she  had  early 
in  life  been  brought  in  contact  with  a  person  who  had  excited 
her  keenest  interest,  and,  by  giving  confidence,  had  in  time 
been  able  to  exact  it.  This  was  the  beginning  of  her  affection 
for  Ronald  Vivian's  mothei*.  lleserved  people  are  grateful  to 
those  who  teach  them  unreserve.  ]Jertha  was  grateful  to  Mrs. 
A'ivian.  Gratitude,  deepened  by  compassion,  became  love, — 
that  romantic  feeling  which  is  so  continually  the  day-dream  of 
a  young  girl's  life,  and  which  may  not  be  the  less  dangerous 
because  the  world  sees  in  it  nothing  to  condemn. 

And  so  l^ertha's  dormant  sympathies  flowed  into  this  one 
channel  which  she  had  dug  for  herself,  and  found  no  vent  in 
those  which  had  been  formed  for  her  by  God.  Mrs.  Campbell 
had  doubtless  much  cause  to  blame  herself  for  this,  but  Ber- 
tha could  not  be  said  to  be  innocent.  Because  she  liked  to 
be  with  jMrs.  Vivian,  and  knew  that  her  society  was  apprecia- 
ted, and  her  presence  felt  as  a  comfort  by  one  ^otherwise  lonely 
and  desolate,  she  made  excuses  to  her  conscience  for  the  neglect 


CLE'/E    HALL.  117 

of  little  liome  duties,  and  attributed  lier  motlicr's  rcproaclies 
to  harshne.ss  of  temper  aud  waut  of  sympathy  with  her  plea- 
sures. Mrs.  Campbell  was  iu  cousequeucc  estranged  from  her, 
and  bestowed  her  afFectious  upon  the  children.  Bertha  was 
hurt  at  this.  She  was  not  exactly  jealous;  it  was  not  in  her 
disposition;  but  her  pride  was  wounded,  and  Ella's  talents 
causing  her  to  be  brought  forward  far  beyond  her  years,  they 
were  continually  jarring.  So  the  colduess  spread.  Bertha 
knew  her  faults,  and  kept  a  strict  watch  over  them ;  but  she 
knew  them  by  their  effects,  not  their  cause.  She  was  always 
doctoring  herself  for  symptoms,  whilst  she  had  never  reached 
the  root  of  the  disease.  And  now,  unknown  to  herself,  under 
the  guise  of  the  most  sacred  of  all  feelings, — a  desire  to  save 
from  ruin  the  child  of  the  friend  whom  she  had  dearly  loved, — 
tL-e  same  seed  of  evil  w^as  again  being  nurtured  in  her  heart. 
To  Ronald  she  could  give  sympathy,  tenderness,  aud  the  most 
untiring  interest ;  he  was,  in  another  form,  the  romance  of 
her  early  life ;  to  Ella  and  Clement  she  could  offer  nothing 
but  rules  of  duty  and  cold  advice.     Was  this  selfishness  ? 

By  the  strictest  inquiry  as  to  her  faults.  Bertha  could  not 
have  discovered  it.  The  friends  who  knew  her  most  intimately, 
aud  watched  her  most  narrowly,  could  not  have  accused  her 
of  it. 

Only  in  one  way  could  she  have  perceived  it :  by  examining 
whether  the  scales  of  duty  were  equally  balanced  ; — whether 
in  throwing  the  weight  of  her  energy  into  one,  she  had  not, 
from  a  secret  bias,  lightened  the  other. 

And  this  kind  of  self-examination  Bertha  had  not  learnt 
to  practise.  She  inquired  rather  into  the  quality  than  the 
extent  of  her  duties,  and  as  long  as  those  which  she  had  set 
herself  were  attended  to  thoroughly  and  honestly,  she  saw  no 
need  to  ask  whether  there  might  not  be  others  neglected. 

Yet  Rachel's  conversation  left  an  unpleasant  impression  on 
her  mind ;  it  touched  her  conscience,  though  she  was  not  quite 
aware  of  the  fact,  and,  in  consequence,  made  her  feel  more, 
irritated  with  Ella  than  before.  And,  certainly,  there  was 
much  to  complain  of  that  morning  :  Ella  stayed  nearly  half  an 
h(jur  with  her  grandmamma,  persuading  her  that  it  was  quite 
necessary  she  should  go  to  the  Hall  the  next  day;  and  wheii, 
at  length,  she  had  obtained  the  desired  consent,  ran  up  stairs 
to  consult  Betsey  about  a  box  for  packing  her  things,  taking 
vip  the  servant's  time,  so  that  the  bed-rooms  were  not  finishc(l 
till  twelve  o'clock.      The  children's  les.^ons  niii^ht  have  been 


118  CLEVE    HALL. 

St-atteretl  to  tlic  winds,  Lut  for  IJcrtha.  As  it  w;is,  tlioy  went 
oil  most  energetically  and  satisfactorily;  but  it  was  at  thft 
expense  of  poor  Bertha's  time,  and,  in  a  certain  way,  of  her 
health,  for  she  was  obliged  in  consequence  to  give  up  a  walk 
before  dinner,  which  had  been  specially  j-ecommended  her,  in 
order  to  write  the  letters  which  ought  properly  to  have  been 
iinislied  whilst  Ella  was  with  the  children. 

Very  little  trouble  and  hibor  this  would  have  been  to 
Bertha,  if  Ella  had  been  at  all  considerate  or  grateful ;  but 
she  was  so  in  the  habit  of  letting  her  duties  fall  quietly  upon 
Bertha's  shouklers,  that  she  really  was  not  aware  at  last  who 
was  bearing  the  burden,  and  therefore  scarcely  ever  thought 
of  saying,  "  Thank  you."  What  was  still  more  provoking,  it 
never  seemed  to  cross  her  mind  that  it  was  her  duty  to  pro- 
Tide,  in  some  way,  for  the  children's  instruction  during  her 
absence.  She  was  one  of  those  easy-tempered  persons,  who 
never  seem  to  imagine  that  they  give  trouble,  because  they 
have  never  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  it.  "  Things  will  go 
on  somehow,"  was  a  very  favorite  saying  of  hers ;  the  some- 
how, meaning  anyhow,  so  long  as  her  own  plans  were  not 
interfered  with. 

It  is  a  grievous  pity  that  wo  do  not  all  learn  to  call  our 
faults  by  their  right  names.  Ella  acknowledged  herself  to  be 
indolent, — that  she  did  not  object  to;  it  was  rather  a  refined 
fault.  She  would  have  been  deeply  mortified  if  it  had  been 
suggested  to  her  that  she  was  selfish,  for  she  was  always 
dreaming  of  heroism,  and  heroines  are  never  selfish. 

And  on  that  day  particularly,  Ella  was  a  heroine  in  her 
own  eyes,  for  she  was  indulging  a  long-cherished  romance. 
She  thought  it  was  about  her  Aunt  Mildred,  but  it  was  really, 
as  is  the  case  with  most  persons  who  give  themselves  to  ro- 
mance, about  herself.  Ella  believed  herself  to  be,  as  she 
expressed  it,  "  bewitched  with  Aunt  IMildred."  They  had 
not  met  above  five  or  six  times;  but  Mildred's  sweet  face, 
her  quiet  grace,  and  earnest  thoughtfulness,  were  most  attract- 
ive to  EHa's  excitable  imagination.  And  then  the  solemn 
grandeur  of  the  old  Hall,  the  seclusion  of  Mildred's  room, 
opening  into  the  private  garden,  her  grandfather's  dignity; 
the  deference  of  the  servants,  and,  above  all,  the  mystery 
which  had  so  long  been  connected  with  the  home  of  her 
father's  childhood; — it  was  not  wonderful  that  these  things 
phould  work  upon  Ella  with  an  influence  amounting  to  fasci- 
li:ition.     It  had  been  her  dream  for  the  last  two  muuths  that 


CLEVE    HALL.  119 

slio  should  go  and  stay  at  Cleve,  and  a  very  iunoeent  dream  it 
seeiued ;  but,  uufortuuately,  though  Aunt  Mildred  appeared 
iu  the  foreground  iu  Ella's  imaginary  pictures,  she  herself 
was  always  peeping  over  her  shoulder :  and  if  the  dream  had 
beeu  examined  when  carried  on  to  its  termination,  it  would 
have  beeu  found  that,  at  last,  Ella  was  to  reign  triumphant 
at  Cleve,  her  grandfather's  idol,  Aunt  Mildred's  pet, — safe 
from  grandmamma's  nervous  anxieties  and  Aunt  Bertha's  lec- 
tures,— the  centre  of  interest  to  the  whole  family. 

With  what  an  instinctive  stateliness  of  manner  did  Ella 
leave  the  house  that  aftei'noon,  arm-in-arm  with  Clement,  to 
ramble  over  the  hills  !  Bertha  had  taken  the  children ;  Mrs. 
Campbell  was  inclined  to  be  left  alone,  probably  to  sleep. 
(Jlemeut  was  yawning,  and  complaining  of  duluess;  and  what 
better  could  be  devised  under  such  tr_)ing  circumstances  than 
a  long  walk  ?  Ella  was  not  fond  of  mounting  the  hills  :  she 
liked  much  better  to  go  to  the  sea-shore,  and  read  poetry;  but 
she  had  been  taking  a  mental  stimulant,  and  for  once  said 
*'  Yes,"  when  Clement  proposed  that  they  should  try  and 
reach  the  Beacon,  a  pile  of  stones  raised  as  a  kind  of  land- 
mark, on  the  top  of  the  highest  hill,  which  rose  a  little  to  the 
north-west  of  Eucombe. 

They  set  off  vigorously  over  the  rough  stones  of  a  long 
lane;  mounted  a  high  gate,  made  their  way  across  a  field  of 
stubble,  and  emerged  upon  the  fine  turf  of  the  hills.  Clement 
stopped  to  take  breath  and  rest,  for  the  ascent,  even  as  far  as 
they  had  gone,  was  tiring.  Ella  dragged  him  on :  "  For 
shame!  false-hearted!  to  want  rest  just  at  the  beginning; 
how  will  you  hold  out  to  the  end  ?" 

"  As  well  as  you  do,  I  will  answer  for  that.  The  hare  and 
the  tortoise,  remember." 

"  I  always  admired  the  hare  the  most,  though  I  respected 
the  tortoise,"  exclaimed  Ella-,  hastening  on;  and  then  stop- 
[liiig  for  a  moment,  quite  breathless,  and  laughing  at  Clement's 
jilodding  steps  :  "  You  see,  Clement,"  she  said,  as  he  drcAV 
near,  "  the  good  of  doing  things  at  a  start  is,  that  you  gain 
time  by  it,  to  find  a  little  amusement  with  your  neighbors. 
The  world  would  be  a  very  dull  world  if  every  one  went 
diiough  it  only  niinding  his  own  concerns,  as  you  do  now." 

"  There  is  something  in  that,"  said  Clement,  throwing  him- 
self upon  the  grass;  "but  what  are  you  to  do,  Ella,  when 
there  is  no  amusement  to  tind'r"' 

"  (Jli,  make  it.      1   .<!i.iuld  always   make   it,"  readied  Ella. 


120  CLEVK    UA1,L. 

"  If  it  w:is  iinf    ill   lifo,  I  would  p;et  it  from  books;  and  if  it 
was  n()t  to  l)t;  had  iu  books,  1  woukl  invent  it." 

"  Very  well  for  you,  who  have  brains;  but  for  a  poor  fel- 
low wlio  has  none  I" 

"  Nonsense,  Clement !  I  won't  have  you  say  that.  Now  for 
another  start!"  And  almost  before  the  words  were  spoken/ 
]']lla  had  made  a  rush,  and  was  several  yards  in  advance. 

Clement  followed  at  a  distance.  A  call  from  Ella  hastened 
his  steps. 

"  Mr.  Lester  and  llachcl  going  towards  tlie  foot  of  the  Bea- 
con ;  shall  we  catcli  up  with  them  i"'  She  did  not  wait  for  an 
answer,  but  hurried  forward. 

Clement  stood  still  for  an  instant,  and  perceiving  a  short 
cut  up  a  steep  bank,  which  Ella  could  scarcely  have  ascended, 
was  about  to  hasten  after  her,  when,  haiipening  to  look  round, 
he  perceived  Ronald  Vivian  coming  up  the  hill,  with  the  firm 
tread  and  athletic  gait  of  a  mountaineer ;  not  hurrying  like 
Ella,  not  leisurely  and  indolently  moving  on  with  unsteady 
2)ace  like  himself,  but  at  every  stride  making  a  marked  pro- 
gress, which  promised  in  a  lew  seconds  to  bring  them  to  the 
same  level. 

The  two  boys  caught  sight  of  each  other  at  the  same  mo- 
ment.    Clement  stopped. 

They  were  only  half  friends,  for  Clement  had  not  forgiven 
Ronald  for  his  interference  on  tlie  night  of  the  storm,  and  was 
all  the  more  irritable  because  he  had  found  that  there  was 
really  no  ground  for  offence.  Ronald  had  indeed  urged  Gofi"  to 
go  without  him,  but  he  had  never  pretended  to  give  a  message 
which  he  had  not  received.  The  attraction  which  drew  them 
together  was  like  that  of  the  rattlesnake  ;  and  it  was  with  an 
assumption  of  superiority  that  Clement  exclaimed,  "Holloa! 
what  errand  are  you  upon  now,  Ronald  ?" 

"  Nothing  of  consequence,"- was  the  reply,  shouted  forth  in 
Ronald's  loudest  tones ;  and,  without  pausing,  he  went  on  iu 
an  opposite  direction  from  that  which  Clement  was  taking. 

His  indifference  piqued  Clement,  and  he  called  again,  "  I 
say,  Ronald,  stop,  can't  you  ?  What  on  earth  does  he  go  on 
at  that  pace  for  '("  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  Ronald,  either 
naturally  or  wilfully  deaf,  strode  forward. 

Another  loud,  shrill  call,  so  loud  that  Ronald  coidd  not  but 
hear,  and  stop  in  answer  to  it;  and  Clement,  irritated  and 
proud,  walked  up  to  him  leisurely,  taking  rather  a  delight  in 
observing  one  or  two  Jnipatieut  gestures. 


CLEVE    HALL.  121 

A  scowl  was  on  Ronald's  face.  Ilis  temper  was  by  nature 
very  cinickly  aroused,  and  had  been,  till  lately,  at  times,  quite 
ungovernable. 

"'<  I'll  tell  you  wliat,  young  sir,"  be  began,  as  Clement  came 
up  to  him,  "  you  must  learn  that  I  have  something  else  to  do 
than  to  stand  kicking  my  heels  together  for  you.  Why  don't 
you  make  haste  ?" 

'*  Why  didn't  you  stop  ?"  inquired  Clement. 

<'  Why  should  I  ?    We  have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other." 

"■  We  shall  have  a  great  deal,  if  you  can't  be  civil,  Master 
Ronald,"  said  Clement.  "  But  there  is  no  need  to  fret  your- 
self. I  only  want  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain  question.  Where 
are  you  going  ?" 

"  Where  you  are  not  required  to  follow,"  replied  Ronald. 
"  Your  course  is  up  the  hills,  I  take  it." 

'*  And  yours  along  them.  I  am  not  so  igncrant,  you  see, 
as  you  may  fancy." 

Ronald's  color  rose ;  but  some  inward  thought  chocked 
his  anger.  "  I  was  impatient  just  now,"  he  said,  ''  and  I  am 
sorry."      He  held  out  his  hand. 

The  words  came  out  so  naturally,  that  Clement  scarcely  un- 
derstood that  an  apology  had  been  offered.  Yet  he  took  the 
hand  extended  to  him,  saying,  "  You  needn't  be  so  close  j  I 
don't  want  to  tell  upon  you." 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  told,"  replied  Ronald;  "but  our 
ways  don't  go  together." 

"  AVhy  not  ?  Ella  and  I  are  only  taking  an  afternoon's 
walk.     Why  shouldn't  we  go  with  you  ?" 

"  Because  I  shall  be  better  without  you,"  said  Ronald, 
bluntly ;  "  the  road  is  a  rough  one." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  for  that !  Ella  doesn't  care  for  rough  roads ; 
and  as  for  me,"  and  Clement  laughed  satirically,  "as  if  I 
couldn't  do  what  you  do  !" 

"  That  may  be.  But,  Clement,  you  are  not  coming  with 
me,"  and  tossing  his  stick  into  the  air,  Ronald  strode  onward. 

"I  am  not,  eh?"  exclaimed  Clement;  "we'll  see  that, 
young  gentlemen  !"  He  flung  down  a  few  wild-flowers  which 
he  had  been  carrj'ing  for  Ella,  and  pressed  forward,  keeping 
Ronald  in  sight,  yet  not  attempting  to  join  him. 

He  had  forgotten  Ella;  he  generally  did  forget  everything 

but  the  impulse  of  the  moment;  and  he  had  an  impression 

tliat  VAhi  was  going  along  the  foot  of  the  hills  in  a  direction 

paralK'l  with  his  own,  and  would  be  sure  to  join  Mr.  Lester. 

G 


122  CLEVE    HALL. 

IIo  il'ul  not  exactly  say  it  to  liimsclf,  but  it  was  a  kind  of 
vague  couviction,  enough  to  satisfy  him;  so  he  went  on. 

The  path  was  winding,  occasionally  almost  dangerous,  for 
it  was  nothing  more  than  a  sheep-track,  and  the  hills  were  in 
some  parts  very  nearly  precipitous.  ]iut  Clement  had  a  firm 
tread,  and  a  steady  eye;  he  kept  Ronald  in  view,  except  when 
at  intervals  a  projecting  point  hid  him  for  a  moment  from 
sight,  and  felt  something  of  the  eagerness  of  a  chase,  as  from 
time  to  time  he  ascended  a  high  mound  or  a  steep  bank,  to 
obtain  a  more  general  view  of  the  course  he  was  taking. 

Then  he  did  once  or  twice  look  for  Ella,  and  at  first  he  saw 
her  hurrying  on  after  two  figures,  whom  he  supposed  to  be 
Mr.  Lester  and  Rachel,  and  afterwards  he  observed  her  stop 
to  rest,  and  shouted  after  her  to  show  her  where  he  was,  but 
he  did  not  wait  to  listen  whether  she  answered  him.  When 
he  looked  the  third  time,  she  was  not  in  sight,  but,  of  course, 
he  supposed,  she  had  heard  him,  and,  seeing  him  at  a  distance, 
had  joined  Mr.  Lester. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


THE  direction  which  Ronald  took,  and  which  Clement  fol- 
lowed, led  at  length  into  another  of  those  deep  gorges  with 
"which  the  Encombe  Hills  abounded,  formed,  in  all  probability, 
by  the  constant  fretting  of  some  mountain  stream,  wearing 
away  the  rocks. 

Greystone  Gorge,  as  it  was  called,  was  much  narrower  than 
the  ravine  in  which  the  village  of  Encombe  had  been  built. 
The  stream,  to  which  it  must  have  owed  its  origin,  had  long 
been  dried  up,  and  it  was  now,  for  the  most  part,  quite  barren 
and  stony,  except  where  some  few  patches  of  rank  gi-ass  had 
sprung  up  among  the  rocks.  At  the  upper  extremity,  how- 
ever, a  solitary  ash-tree,  the  relic  probably  of  the  woods  which 
had  formerl}'  clothed  the  hills,  had  taken  root,  and,  with  the 
cliff  behind,  formed  a  shelter  for  a  good-sized  cottage,  a  small 
cow-shed,  and  a  pig-stye.  Under  the  shade  of  the  tree,  a 
party  of  children  were  at  play,  collected  around  a  little  hand 
carriage,  in  which  a  sickly  boy,  of  about  five  years  of  age,  was 
l^iiig;  but  Ronald's  figure  was  no  sooner  seen  descending  the 


CLEVE    HALL.  123 

bciirht,  tlian  a  scream  of  mingled  fear  and  delight  burst  foitli, 
ami  in  a  moment  tliey  were  scattered  in  all  directions,  hiding 
themselves  in  the  house,  or  behind  the  cow-shed,  and  one  of 
the  more  adventurous  climbing  i\p  the  face  of  the  almost  per- 
pendicular cliiF. 

Eonald  called  to  them  with  a  rough  but  good-natured  re- 
proof: ''Why,  jou  sillj  imps!  what  are  you  after?  Here, 
Johnnie, — Martha ;  here,  I  say.  One  would  think  I  was  the 
Black  Rider.*"  They  came  up  to  him,  and  he  unslung  a  basket 
which  he  had  been  cariying  on  a  pole  over  his  shoulder,  and, 
placing  it  on  the  ground;  told  them  to  take  it  between  them 
into  the  cottage. 

"I  thought  'tweren't  no  one  but  you,  Master  Ronald,"  ex- 
claimed Johnnie,  seizing  the  basket  by  one  handle,  and  nearly 
upsetting  it ;  "  but  Martha  declared  as  how  there  was  two  of 
you,  and  then  I  said  you  always  come  alone,  so  it  couldn't  be 
you." 

""What  has  Martha  been  doing  to  see  double?"  exclaimed 
Ronald.     "  I  shan't  trust  her  if  she  does  that." 

"  There  was  another,  and  that's  he,"  exclaimed  Martha; 
and,  pointing  to  the  top  of  the  rocks,  she  added :  "  He's  a 
skulking  down,  but  I  can  see  him." 

"  He  shall  skulk  to  some  purpose,"  exclaimed  Ronald, 
springing  up  the  rocks  again  with  the  agility  of  a  wild  goat, 
and  in  his  eagerness  not  hearing  the  cries  of  the  sickly  boy 
under  the  ash-tree,  who  called  after  him  in  a  voice  of  agony, 
"  that  he  would  break  his  neck,  and  then  he  shouldn't  see  him 
any  more."  From  point  to  point  he  swung  himself  with  a 
rapidity  which  it  was  pain  to  follow ;  his  feet  seeming  scarcely 
to  touch  the  rock,  his  eye  giving  quick  glances  around. 

"  He's  got  him;  there  they  be!"  exclaimed  Johnnie;  and 
drawing  his  little  sister  towards  him,  he  showed  her  where,  on 
an  overhanging  platform,  Ronald  and  Clement  stood  confront- 
ing each  othe^". 

''  Spy  !"  burst  from  Ronald's  lips. 

Clement  laughed.  "  I  was  not  to  come,  wasn't  I  ?  I 
have  shown  you  now  that  I  will  come,  when  and  where  I 
choose." 

"  Not  without  my  consent,"  replied  Ronald,  coolly ;  "  vou 
will  go  back." 

"Not  at  your  order,  Master  Ronald  ;  or  we  will  try  which 
ih  the  strongest." 

"  Ay,   try !"    and   Ronald    shrugged    his    shoulders    con- 


121:  CLEVE    HALL. 

toniptuously.  "  I  should  be  sorry,  young  sir,  to  hiivc  to  pitcll 
you  over  the  rocks."  He  folded  his  arms,  and  iK>ddiiig  his 
head  as  he  looked  up  at  the  clift's,  added  :  "  If  you  take  my 
advice,  you'll  be  ofl." 

**  I  take  uo  advice,  except  from  my  superiors,"  exclaimed 
Clement. 

Kouald's  eyes  flashed,  he  lifted  up  his  hand,  and  touched 
Clement's  shoulder. 

His  grasp  was  shaken  off  indignantly,  ahd  Clemeut 
clenched  his  fist,  and  drew  nearer  to  the  edge  of  the  rock. 

"  llonald  !  Ronald  !"  screamed  a  voice  from  below.  The 
sick  boy  was  raising  himself  in  his  little  carriage,  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  hands. 

Ronald's  hand,  which  had  been  raised  to  ward  off  the 
anticipated  blow,  fell  by  his  side.  ^'  As  you  will,"  he  said, 
((uitc  calmly;  "we  are  fools  to  quarrel;"  and  he  turned  sud- 
denly round,  and  sprang  down  the  cliffs.  The  next  moment 
he  was  at  the  side  of  the  child's  carriage. 

"  Barney,  what  made  you  call  ?     What  frightens  you  ?" 

*'I  don't  know.  You'd  have  tumbled  over,"  said  the  child, 
"  and  I  wanted  you." 

"  I  was  coming  to  you;  you  mustn't  be  impatient." 

"  He  looked  as  if  he  would  have  thrown  you  down,"  con- 
tinued the  boy. 

"Perhaps  he  would,  but  I  should  have  picked  myself  up." 

"  But  you  couldn't ;  God  wouldn't  have  let  you ;  you'd 
have  been  killed ;"  and  tears  of  nervous  fright  chased  them- 
selves down  the  little  fellow's  cheeks. 

"  No  matter  perhaps  for  that,  if  I  had  been,"  muttered 
Ronald. 

Barney  caught  the  words.  "  It  must  matter,"  he  said. 
"Father  says  it  don't,  but  the  clergyman  says  it  does;  he 
taught  me  a  hymn  about  it.  I  can  say  it ;"  and  without  wait- 
ing for  permission,  he  began,  and  went  through  the  first  verse 
till  just  at  the  end  of  the  last  line,  when  he  stopped,  and, 
looking  up  at  Ronald,  said  with  a  keenly  intelligent  smile, 
"  He's  a  listening ;  he's  no  business  to  listen." 

Clement  was  close  at  hand. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Ronald  ;  and  the  second  verse  of  the  hymn 
was  begun  and  finished,  and  then  Barney  stretched  out  his 
wasted  hajids  to  Ronald,  and  said,  "  Won't  you  cany  me  '/" 
And  Ronald  lifted  him  in  his  strong  arms,  and  bore  him  a  few 
paces  up  the  rock  to  a  stone  seat,  and,  resting  the  child  in  hid 


CLEVE    HALL.  125 

lap,  he  bade  him  look  down  the  gorge,  and  see  if  any  one  was 
coming  up. 

"  Father's  coming,  I  think ;  no,  'tisn't  he,  'tis  the  black 
cow.  Father  won't  be  home  yet.  Shan't  you  have  time  to 
stay?" 

"  I  don't  know;  if  I  can't,  I  will  come  again.  But  you 
nnist  wait  here  a  minute,  whilst  I  go  and  talk  with  the  young 
gentleman.     You'll  be  comfortable  if  I  put  my  coat  down  for 

He  took  off  his  coat,  and  folding  it  together,  stretched  it 
over  the  stone,  and  laid  the  child  vxpon  it.  "  There,  Barney, 
just  for  two  minutes.  You  can  look  at  me  all  the  time  ;  you 
won't  care,  will  you  ?" 

Barney's  face  betokened  tears;  but  Ronald  stopped  them. 
"  You  told  me  yesterday  you  meant  to  try  and  be  good,  and 
not  cry  any  more." 

"  I  wouldn't  if  you  didn't  go  away." 

"But  if  I  do  you  mustn't;  that's  what  would  be  right; 
and  when  I  come  back  we  will  open  the  basket." 

"  Have  you  brought  them  ?"  exclaimed  the  child,  his  e^'es 
sparkling,  and  the  color  rising  to  his  pale  cheeks. 

*'  Yes,  two  flags,  beautiful  flags,  for  the  little  ship,  and  some 
tiny  men,  and  a  cake  besides,  and  a  picture-book.  You  shall 
see  them  presently,  but  you  must  let  me  go  now;"  and  he  gently 
loosened  the  tight  hold  with  which  Barney  grasped  his  sleeve, 
and,  nodding  to  him,  hurried  down  the  bank. 

Clement  had  not  moved  from  the  ash-tree ;  he  was  stand- 
ing there,  moodily,  watching  Ronald  and  the  child.  When 
Ronald  drew  near  he  glanced  around,  as  though  he  would  fain 
have  made  his  escape. 

Ronald  went  up  to  him  at  once.  "  You  have  seen  all  there 
is  to  see ;  now,  Clement,  will  you  go  ?" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  make  such  secrets  about 
nothing,"  replied  Clement,  taking  up  the  offensive.  "Why 
couldn't  you  tell  me  at  once  you  were  coming  to  see  the  child  ? 
I  shouldn't  have  troubled  myself  then." 

"  Because  I  didn't  choose  to  answer  impertinent  questions;" 
and,  seeing  Clement's  color  rise,  Ronald  added,  "  I  am  noi 
going  to  be  angry,  Clement,  but  once  for  all  I  tell  you  that 
now  you  must  go." 

"  I  don't  see  that,"  was  Clement's  reply. 

"Then  you  must  learn  to  see  it.  ]\Jr.  Lester  and  Miss 
Campbell  would  wish  it;   you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 


126  CLEVE    HALL 

"  I  am  not  poin^  to  submit  to  a  •woman,"  exclaimed  Cloincnt, 
"and  Mr.  Lester  has  no  authority." 

"  Perhaps  not.     It  makes  no  difference  to  me." 

"  And  you  will  be  a  turn-coat  after  idl,"  exclaimed  Clement, 
"  tied  to  a  woman's  apron-string  !  Well,  then  1"  and  his  lips 
curled  into  a  super;  "perhaps  you  are  right ;  we  had  better 
part." 

llonald's  hand  grasped  the  knotted  head  of  the  stick  which 
he  held  in  his  hand,  till  every  muscle  seemed  strained  to 
suffering. 

"  And  when  I  thought  we  were  to  be  friends !"  pursucil 
Clement,  his  tone  softening.     "  You  told  me  we  should  bo." 

"  Yes,  when  I  thought  there  was  no  obstacle." 

"  Obstacle  !  "When  persons  choose  to  be  friends,  what  is  tu 
prevent  it  ?" 

"  It  can't  be,"  was  llonald's  reply. 

"  But  it  can,  and  shall  be,  if  I  wish  it.  Wc  arc  not  always 
to  be  kept  under  lock  and  key;  the  world  will  one  day  be  free 
to  us." 

llonald  laid  his  rough  liand  upon  Clement's  arm  :  "  Good- 
b'ye,  old  fellow !  It  won't  do."  The  faltering  of  his  voice 
belied  the  indifference  of  his  words.  "  You'll  thank  me  for 
it,  some  day,"  he  added. 

"  Thank  you  for  making  me  know  how  to  trust  in  a  friend," 
exclaimed  Clement,  the  scornful  accent  again  marking  his 
words. 

"  Our  paths  lie  apart,"  continued  Ronald.  "  Y'ou  don't 
see  it  now,  Clement,  but  you  will." 

"And  time  enough  then  to  change,"  replied  Clement. 

"  Too  late  then,"  replied  Ronald.  lie  moved  a  few  steps 
aside,  perhaps  not  to  betray  liis  inward  feelings,  and  mounting 
upon  a  pile  of  stones,  looked  down  the  gorge.  In  another 
miuute  he  returned  to  Clement,  and  his  voice  was  altered  from 
?tern  earnestness  to  eagerness  which  bordered  upon  excitement : 
"  I  can't  have  you  stay.  There  is  a  short  way  up  the  cliff,  by 
Mic  brushwood.  Come,  we  must  go — both."  He  sprang  for- 
ward, and  Clement,  almost  frightened  by  his  wilil  manner 
followed  him. 

They  reached  the  top  of  the  gorge,  and  paused, 

"  There  is  my  father,"  said  Ronald,  coldly. 

A  man  was  seen  coming  up  the  gorge. 

"  I  must  go  to  him ;"  yet  he  lingered. 

"  Ronald,"  said  Clement,  "you  are  so  strange  !" 


CLEVE    HALL.  127 

'<  Am  I?  Yes,  I  know  I  am.  Oh  Clement!"  and  he  sank 
apon  the  c;round,  and  bnvied  his  face  in  his  hands. 

''  Ronald,  you  won't  let  me  help  you,  or  I  would." 

"  Help  me  by  leaving  me.  Go,  go — it  is  sin  to  be  together. 
Sin,"  he  repeated  in  an  under  tone,  and  then  a  faint,  mocking 
laugh  followed  the  words  :  "  why  should  I  care  for  sin  ?" 

"  We  must  all  care,"  said  Clement,  timidly. 

"  Ay  !  all — while  there  is  time — while  there  is  hope."  He 
started  up  suddenly,  and  grasped  Clement's  arm :  "  There  is 
time  and  hope  for  you :  keep  from  me,  or  there  will  be  none — 
none." 

A  child's  cry  fell  faintly  but  clearly  on  the  ear. 

Ronald  leaned  back  against  the  rock,  and  his  lip  quivered  : 
"  Clement,  I  have  been  passionate,  wicked  :  forgive  me."  He 
hurried  down  the  cliff,  Clement  not  daring  to  follow  him. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


EOXALD  stood  again  by  the  side  of  the  sick  boy,  and  spuke 
soothingly,  and   caressed  him  as  before;  but  the  child 
noticed  the  change. 

"You  went  away  and  left  me,"  ho  said,  fretfully;  "you 
told  me  you  wouldn't,  and  you  did." 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,  Barney ;  I  didu't  mean  to  go.  Shall 
I  carry  you  in-doors  now?  and  we  will  unpack  the  basket." 
His  heart  was  not  in  his  words,  for  his  eye  was  at  every  instant 
glancing  down  the  ravine. 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  the  basket;  I  want  you  to  stay,  and 
you  are  going  away." 

"  Ry-and-by,  not  yet.     You  will  like  to  sec  the  new  flags." 

"Yes,  out  here;  if  you'd  sit  down  and  take  me  up.  It's 
BO  hard !"  and  the  poor  child  twisted  himself  uneasily  on  hi.s 
stony  couch. 

"  In-doors,  on  the  cushion,"  said  Ronald,  "  it  might  be 
better  than  my  knee.     Won't  you  go  and  try '/" 

"  No,  I  don't  like  the  cushion ;  I  want  to  be  taken  up 
Oh,  it  hurts  !"  and  the  poor  little  fellow  tried  to  move  so  as  to 
ease  his  back,  and  finiling  it  useless,  began  to  cry. 

Ronald    put  his  arm   round  him   and    gently  raised  him: 


128  CLEVE    HALL. 

''  Now,  Barney ;  there's  a  jjooil  boy,  dou't  cry.  You  must 
loam  to  be  a  mau.  You  wou't  be,  if  you  cry.  Now,  isn't 
that  better?" 

"  But  you  won't  take  nie;  if  you' J  let  me  sit  up.  I  don't 
want  to  go  in-doors ;  I  want  to  sit  up." 

"Oh,  Barney,  Barney!  you've  been  spoilt ;  you  have  had 
your  own  way  till  you  arc  naughty." 

The  fretful,  wizen  face  was  calmed  directly.  ''  I  don't 
want  to  be  uaughty.  Mr.  Lester  says  I  shan't  go  to  Heaven 
if  I  am." 

llonald  lifted  him  up  fondly,  and  set  him  on  his  laice;  but 
Barney  was  not  satisfied. 

"  No,  I'll  go  in,  and  I'll  sec  the  flags.  That's  not  spoilt, 
is  it  ?"  he  added,  gazing  wistfully  into  llonald's  face. 

Ronald  only  replied  by  kissing  the  little  thin  cheek ;  and 
lifting  the  child  in  his  arms,  held  him  with  the  firmness  of  a 
man,  whilst  his  touch  was  gentle  as  a  woman's,  and  carried 
him  towards  the  cottage. 

The  building  hid  from  them  the  length  of  the  ravine,  but 
a  sudden  angle  in  the  path  brought  them  in  front  of  it. 
Barney's  head  was  resting  upon  llonald's  ami,  and  he  feebly 
turned  it,  for  his  ear  had  caught  another  footstep :  "  It's  Captain 
John;  ain't  it  Captain  John?  He  won't  be  coming  to  take 
me  :  you  won't  let  him  ?"  and  he  clung  closely  and  tremblintilv 
to  iidnakl. 

'■'  Foolish  child !  what's  there  to  be  afraid  of?"  but  Ronald's 
own  voice  was  not  as  indifierent  as  his  words. 

''  He  said  he'd  carry  me  ofi"  one  day,"  whispered  Barney; 
"  and  grandfather  said,  if  he  were  father,  he'd  give  me  up." 

"  Because  you  were  good  for  nothing,  I  suppose,"  said 
Ronald,  good-naturedly.  "  But,  never  mind;  he  won't  want 
to  do  it  now;  and  grandfather's  not  with  him." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?    But  Captain  John  will  want  to  have  me." 

"  lie  wants  me,  if  he  wants  any  one,"  said  Ronald,  gravely. 

"  Tell  him  he  mustn't;  I  can't  bear  you  to  go." 

Ronald  smiled  grindy.  "  There's  no  must  for  him,"  he 
muttered  to  himself. 

"  I  thought  everyone  must  sometimes,"  persisted  the  chald. 

''  Sometimes,  perhaps."  Ronald  hurried  forward  so  as  lo 
reach  the  door  of  the  cottage  before  his  father,  who  was  walk- 
ing leisurely  up  the  gorge,  could  sec  and  stop  him. 

The  little  room  which  he  entered  was  neater  than  the  exter- 
nal appearance  of  the  house  would  have  indicated.     Fishin" 


CLEVE    HALL.  129 

tackle,  indeed,  huug  on  the  wliitewaslied  walls,  and  the  flujr 
was  only  of  stone  sanded  over,  and  the  ceiling  was  formed  of 
rafters  blackened  by  smoke  from  the  large  open  hearth,  in 
which  wood  was  the  accustomed  fuel ;  but  there  was  an  evident 
attempt  at  something  even  of  refinement  in  the  arrangement 
of  a  few  cottage  prints,  and  the  flowers  placed  in  the  window- 
seat;  and  Barney's  little  couch  was  covered  wnth  a  bright 
chintz,  whilst  a  curtain  of  the  same  material  had  been  put  up 
to  shut  out  the  draught  from  the  window.  Evidently  a  womau'a 
hand  had  been  at  work ;  but  there  was  no  woman  to  be  seen, 
and  Ronald  himself  laid  his  little  charge  gently  on  the  couch, 
and  placed  the  pillows  comfortably  for  him,  and  said,  "Now, 
Barney,  that  will  do,  won't  it?  and  I  will  take  out  the  flags 
and  the  picture-book,  and  you  can  show  them  to  Martha  and 
Johnnie." 

"  There's  Captain  John  coming,  and  he  wants  you,"  said 
the  child,  in  a  changed  voice.  His  gaze,  as  he  caught  hold  of 
Ronald,  was  anxious,  almost  terrified. 

Captain  Vivian  stood  in  the  doorway :  "  Absent  without 
leave,  Ronald  !     You'll  please  to  answer  for  yourself." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause,  as  it  seemed  of  self-distrust, 
for  Ronald's  words  came  slowly:  "No  need  for  that,  Father; 
you  see  where  I  have  been  without  asking." 

"  Fooling  away  your  time ;  but  we  must  teach  you  better 
than  that.     I  say,  child,  where's  your  father?" 

"  Gone  out  with  grandfather,"  replied  the  boy,  quietly  and 
timidly.      "  Grandfather  came  and  fetched  him." 

"  Umph  !     How  long  ago  ?" 

"  A  good  bit,  I  think  it  was ;"  and  the  child  looked  up  at 
Ronald  for  protection  from  the  rough  voice. 

"  And  you,  sir  !"  Captain  Vivian  turned  to  Ronald — "  Let 
me  hear  what  you  are  after  here." 

"  Keeping  my  word,"  replied  Ronald.  "  I  promised  to  come 
and  see  the  child,  and  I  came." 

"  Promises  !  Perchance,  since  you  are  in  the  humor  for 
them,  I  may  remind  you  of  others.  Where's  the  boy  Clement 
Vivian  ?" 

"  He  is  not  in  my  charge,"  replied  Ronald. 

"  And  he  has  not  been  here  ?     You  have  not  seen  him  ?" 

"  He  has  been  here,  and  I  have  seen  him,"  replied  Ronald ; 
"but  he  is  gone." 

"  And  you  let  him  go.  You  dared  to  disobey  my  orders." 
Captain  Vivian's  voice  was  fiercely  threatening. 


130  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  Yo»i  pive  nio  noiu*,"  was  the  reply. 

"  A  f[uibblo  !  I  pointed  him  out  upon  the  liill,  and  told 
you  that  to  meet  hiui  and  keep  hiiu  would  be  doing  good 
service." 

"You  said  it,"  replied  Eonald;  "but  I  judged  that  he 
would  not  be  profited  by  the  meeting." 

A  torrent  of  fearful  words  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  en- 
raged father. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Barney — don't  cry;"  and  Ronald  stooped 
down  and  stroked  the  child's  head,  and  pressed  his  little  hand, 
which  was  trembling  with  nervousness.  "  Father,"  he  con- 
tinued, hurriedly,  "  I  have  not  disobeyed  you  in  the  letter — 
in  the  spirit  I  have  and  will.  Nay,  hear  me  to  the  end,"  as 
Captain  Vivian  would  have  interrupted  him;  "  I  will,  because 
I  must.  It  shall  never  be  said  that  by  my  aid  Clement  Vivian 
has  become  what  I  am." 

"  Foolish  boy  1"  Captain  Vivian's  tone  changed  into  a 
soft  sneer,  more  painful  even  than  his  violence.  "  Who  says 
that  Clement  Vivian  is  to  become  what  you  are  ?  and  if  he 
were,  what  need  to  be  ashamed  of  being  like  a  brave  boy,  who 
can  lord  it  over  the  boldest  at  his  pleasure." 

"  But  cannot  lord  it  over  liimself,"  murmured  Ilonald  ;  and 
then  in  a  louder  tone  he  continued,  "  Father,  I  will  speak  to 
you  plainly.  Whilst  Clement  was  my  friend  only,  like  any 
other  friend,  and  you  encouraged  our  being  together  for  that 
purpose  only,  it  was  well :  when  you  urge  me  to  seek  his 
society  for  a  different  reason,  you  enter  upon  a  course  where 
I  will  not  follow  you." 

"  Well  learnt  from  the  lips  of  Miss  Campbell  and  Mr.  Les- 
ter,— perfectly  learnt ;  but  it  shan't  last.  Listen,  Ilonald,  my 
boy;  it's  time  we  should  begin  to  understand  each  other. 
Obedience  I — that's  the  word.  ]Mr.  Lester  himself  can't 
preach  it  better  than  I  can.  What's  more,"  and  Captain 
Vivian  struck  his  stick  upon  the  ground,  "  he  can't  enforce  it 
better.  Talk  to  me  of  shame  and  sorrow,  and  all  they  call 
religion  !  There'll  be  more  shame  and  more  sorrow  for  you 
in  one  hour  of  your  father's  anger  than  in  all  the  threats  they 
hold  out  from  yonder  pulpit  at  Encombe." 

"  I  am  ready  to  endure  it,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"  Then  ti-y  it;  take  your  own  will,  and " 

Ronald's  countenance  changed  to  an  expression  of  agony  : 
"Stop!  father,  in  mercy;  require  of  me  what  you  will,  do 
with  me  as  you  will,  only  do  not  ask  me  to  lead  Clement  tu 
ruin." 


CLEVE    HALL.  131 

'<Him?  and  why  not  him?  Why  is  he  to  be  cared  foi 
aiore  than  others  ?  I  warn  you,  boy,  that  he  is  a  serpent  in 
your  path,  and  one  day  you  will  wish  that  you  had  crushed 
him." 

Instead  of  replying,  Ronald  moved  again  towards  the  door. 

*'  Ay,  go,"  exclaimed  Captain  Vivian,  whilst  at  the  same 
time  he  stretched  out  his  arm  to  stop  him ;  "  wander  where 
you  will ;  seek  your  own  friends,  you  will  soon  have  need  of 
them;  for  remember,  Ronald,"  and  his  voice  became  sullenly 
fierce,  "  refuse  to  do  my  bidding,  and  your  father's  doors  will 
be  closed  against  you  for  ever." 

As  he  spoke,  Ronald  pushed  aside  his  arm,  hurried  from 
the  cottage,  and  mounted  the  gorge  by  the  same  path  which 
he  had  ascended  with  Clement. 

He  hurried  on  wildly  over  rocks  and  bushes,  clambering 
up  heights  which,  in  calmer  moments,  even  he  might  have 
thought  inaccessible.  The  self-control  he  had  exerted  had 
strained  his  mind  almost  to  frenzy,  and  even  his  better  feel- 
ings seemed  urging  him  on  to  despair.  His  father  !  was  such 
a  man  worthy  of  the  name  of  parent  ?  could  he  claim  his 
obedience?  Was  it  really  the  act  of  a  merciful  Providence 
which  could  subject  him  to  si*ch  a  fiend-like  power  ?  and  if  it 

w(!re  not a  hurricane  of  thoughts  rushed  over  his  mind. 

Why  should  he  struggle  ?— ^evil  was  powerful,  not  good.  Evil 
had  been  present  to  him  from  his  childhood,  it  was  his  portion, 
his  doom ;  and  scenes  of  riot  and  guilt  rose  up  before  him, 
with  their  horrible  excitement;  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  strong 
hand  were  forcing  him  back,  to  forget  his  misery  in  reckless- 
ness ;  and  yield  himself,  body  and  soul,  to  the  tempter  whom 
he  had  been  striving  to  resist. 

Weak  Ronald  was  at  the  very  moment  of  victoiy — for  he 
did  not  know  that  he  had  conquered.  So  fierce  had  been  the 
struggle  of  that  inward  self-restraint  to  a  spirit  long  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  slightest  check,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  effort 
had  only  succeeded  in  breaking  up  the  strong  powers  of  his 
mind,  and  rendering  it  a  chaos  of  bewildering  wretchedness. 
He  sat  himself  down  upon  the  grass,  and  hid  his  face  between 
his  knees,  feeling,  though  unconsciously,  that  the  clearness 
of  the  unclouded  sky,  and  the  brilliancy  of  the  glorious  sun, 
added  tcnf(ild  to  his  sense  of  misery;  and  faintly  from  afar 
came  the  tinkling  of  the  sheep-bell,  and  the  lowing  of  the 
r.'ittie  in  the  valley,  mingling  with  the  chirping  of  the  grass- 
hopper, and  the  wliirring  of  the  insects  floating  in   the  air, 


132  CLEVE    HALL. 

but  ;ill  liuslicd  to  Ronald's  car,  wliich  caught  iiotliiiig  but  the 
booniin<r  of  the  ocean,  murniuring  in  its  ceaseless  tones  : 
''  The  wicked  are  like  the  troubled  sea  when  it  cannot  rest, 
whose  waters  cast  up  mire  and  dirt.  There  is  no  peace,  saith 
my  God,  to  the  wicked." 

So  he  sat  for  minutes,  and  thought  them  hours ;  and  so  he 
mitrht  have  sat  even  till  night,  conscious  of  nothing  but  the 
sense  of  hopeless  weakness  and  desolation,  when  a  gentle  hand 
touched  him,  and  a  childish  but  most  musical  voice  said  in  a 
low  and  frightened  tone,   "  Ronald,  is  it  you?  Are  you  ill  ?" 

It  was  ilachel  Lester.  He  started  up,  and  his  haggard 
face  confirmed  the  suspicion  she  had  expressed. 

"  I  thought  it  was  you,  but  I  was  afraid.  You  are  ill ;  I 
will  run  and  fetch  papa :  he  is  just  coming." 

*'  No,  no ;"  Ronald  stopped  her,  as  she  would  have  hastened 
away;  '*  not  Mr.  Lester;  I  can't  see  him;  and  I  am  not  ill, 
not  at  all,  only  tired  ;  I  must  go." 

Rachel  looked  doubtful  :  "  You  are  very  pale,  Ronald; 
papa  would  rather  see  you,  I  am  sure." 

"  He  can  do  me  no  good — good  b'ye." 

She  looked  wistfully  in  his  face,  and  tears  gathered  in  her 
eyes:  ''Ronald,  you  are  so  very  unhappy;  I  wish  I  could  do 
anything  for  you." 

Most  touching  and  earnest  was  the  tone;  and  Ronald  paused 
as  he  was  about  to  leave  her,  and  said  :  ''  Thank  you,  Rachel; 
that  is  more  than  many  would  say." 

"  Papa  would  do  a  great  deal  for  you,"  she  replied,  ''  if 
you  would  tell  him  what  is  the  matter.    May  I  say  it  to  him?" 

"  Say  what  ?— that  I  am  ill  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  are  ill ;  but  if  it  is  only  that  things  vex  you, 
he  would  like  to  help  you  if  you  would  let  him." 

"  And  if  he  could,"  said  Ronald,  bitterly. 

"But  he  can  help  every  one;  at  least,  he  can't,  but  God 
can  through  him." 

''  Mr.  Lester  can  do  a  great  deal,  I  know  that,  Rachel,"  said 
Ronald,  his  moody  tone  changing  into  the  gentle  accent  in 
which  he  had  spoken  to  the  child  at  the  cottage;  ''  but  there 
may  be  some  things  beyond  his  cure.  Don't  fret,  though," 
he  added,  seeing  that  Rachel's  face  expressed  her  commisera- 
tion for  feelings  which  yet  she  was  unable  to  understand; 
"  my  troubles  won't  come  in  your  way." 

"  They  will,  though,"  said  Rachel ;  "  I  can't  bear  to  see 
you  so,  Ronald." 


CLEVE    HALL.  13o 

Ronald's  smile  passed  over  his  face,  as  a  gleam  of  sad  suu- 
^liiue  at  the  close  of  a  day  of  storms. 

"God  made  us  all  to  be  happy,"  continued  Rachel ;  ''so 
papa  says." 

''He  made  you  to  be  happy,  Rachel,"  exclaimed  Ronald, 
earnestly. 

"  And  you  too,  Ronald." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  But  we  must  be  happy  if  we  make  others  happy,"  con- 
tinued Rachel. 

"  Perhaps  so,  if  pre  do." 

"But  you  do.  You  make  little  Barney  happy."  She 
paused,  expecting  his  assent ;  but  he  did  not  give  it,  and  she 
went  on.  "  He  was  crying  for  you  the  other  day  when  papa 
and  I  went  to  see  him." 

"  He  cries  for  a  great  many  .'hings,"  said  Ronald,  with 
some  impatience  of  tone. 

"  Please  don't  say  so;  he  loves  you  very  much,  and  he  would 
not  at  all  know  what  to  do  without  you." 

"  He  will  be  taken  soon,"  replied  Ronald,  mournfully,  yet 
not  despondingly. 

"  And  then  he  will  be  like  an  angel,  and  God  will  give  you 
^orae  one  else  to  take  care  of.  Oh !  Ronald,  can  any  one  be 
unhappy  who  can  work  for  God?" 

Silence  followed  for  a  few  seconds,  whilst  Ronald  gazed 
intently  upon  the  expanse  of  the  sea,  with  its  high  horizon 
blending  with  the  sky;  then  a  sigh  escaped  him  as  if  some 
load  had  passed  from  his  heart.  He  turned  round^  abruptly  : 
"  Good-b'ye,  Rachel;  you  are  good,  if  no  one  else  is." 

"Good-b'ye,  Ronald;  we  are  going  to  see  Barney." 

Ronald  walked  a  few  steps  slowly  away,  and  then  returned 
to  say :  ''  Barney  wants  another  little  cu,«hiou  for  his  head, 
Rachel,  if  you  could  let  him  have  it." 

'•'  Yes,  I  will  be  sure  and  remember." 

He  walked  on  again,  his  step  blither  and  firmer;  and  again 
he  came  back  :  "  I  left  him  in  a  hurry  just  now,  and  could  not 
show  him  the  picture-book  I  brought.  Perhaps  you  will  for 
me,  —  and  will  you  say  I  will  try  and  sec  him  again  to- 
morrow?" 

"  Thank  you ;  he  will  be  so  glad.  Are  you  going  up  the 
hills  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  perhaps  so;"  but  the  tone,  sad  a;»d  indif- 
ferent tliough  it  was,  had  lost  its   accent  of  despair.     Some- 


104  CLEVE    HALL. 

tliiiii;-  had  cliaiitjjed  iho  current  of  Iluiiald's  moody  tlioupjlitH, 
and  led  liiui  out  of  himself.  Perhaps  ho  was  treasurin<>;  in 
his  heart  tlie  words,  comforting  and  hopeful  as  the  sweet  little 
face  which  had  just  been  gazing  upon  him — "  Can  any  one  bo 
unhappy  who  can  work  for  God?" 

llachel  watched  liim  as  he  walked  away,  with  that  sense 
of  interest  and  surprise,  mingled  with  awe,  which  children 
always  feel  wlien  brought  in  contact  with  the  suffering  of  per- 
sons older  than  themselves;  and  at  length  waking  up  sud- 
denly to  the  consciousness  that  she  was  alone  upon  the  hills, 
and  that  her  father  ought  by  this  time  to  have  joined  lier,  she 
was  about  to  run  back  to  the  place  where  she  had  left  him, 
when  a  faint  yet  sharp  cry  of  distress  broke  upon  the  stillness, 
followed  by  another,  and  another ;  and  the  next  instant  Ronald 
repassed  her,  though  at  some  little  distance,  making  his  way 
in  the  direction  of  the  rugged  cliff  of  rock  and  shingle,  which 
formed  the  highest  point  of  the  Beacon. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


''  A  RE  you  going  far.  Sir,  this  afternoon  ?"  Mrs.  Robinson 
j\_  stopped  Mr.  Bruce,  as  bis  hand  was  upon  the  fasten- 
ing of  the  little  gate  in  the  court  yard. 

**  To  the  church;  I  may  go  farther,  but  I  have  not  much 
heart  to  go  anywhere." 

Perhaps  it  was  illness  wbich  made  Mr.  Bruce  speak  so 
despondingly.  He  did  appear  very  much  out  of  health ;  his 
complexion  had  the  yellow  parchment  look  common  to  persons 
who  have  lived  long  in  a  hot  climate. 

"  You  haven't  been  into  the  church  yet,  Sir." 

"Not  yet.  Mr.  Lester  forbids  the  week  days,  and  sent 
me  last  Sunday  to  Cleve." 

"  Yes,  Sir,  yes ;  I  remember.  Perhaps  it  might  be  as 
well  if  I  went,  too,  for  the  keys.  Jacob  Clarke  is  an  odd 
man." 

"There  is  no  reason.  I  have  met  Jacob  at  the  Par- 
sonage." 

"  He's  very  blind,"  said  Mrs.  Robinson,  in  a  mcditativi^ 
tone;   "and  deaf,  too,  sometimes." 


CLEVE  HALL.  135 

"I  shall  do  very  well;  don't  trouble  yourself.  I  sLaU  go 
to  the  Parsonage  to  drink  tea." 

His  manner  was  that  of  a  man  whose  mind  is  quite  pre- 
occupied ;  and  it  might  have  appeared  unkind  to  persons  who 
only  knew  him  slightly.  But  Mrs.  Eobinson  did  not  take  it 
to  heart  much,  certainly  not  as  much  as  Mr.  Bruce  himself, 
when  a  momentary  self-recollection  reminded  him  of  his  tone, 
which  had  been  sharper  than  his  words.  He  looked  back  at 
her,  and  nodded:  "  Good-b'ye,  Granny!"  —  he  must  have 
learnt  to  call  her  that  from  Bachel  Lester — don't  expect  me 
till  you  see  me ;  but  don't  worry  about  me." 

The  sober,  melancholy-visaged  woman  shook  her  head : 
''  Thoughtless — always  the  same !  But  'tis  to  be  expected  !" 
and  with  a  resigned  air  she  repaired  to  the  farm-kitchen,  to 
superintend  some  arrangements  for  her  guest's  comfort. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  she  was  at  the  gate  again,  for  she 
had  heard  it  open,  and  thought  he  must  be  returned.  It  had 
been  opened,  but  by  GoflF,  the  fisherman,  not  by  Mr.  Bruce. 
He  came  up  to  her  with  a  swaggering  air. 

"  Your  friend  at  home,  eh  ?" 

''  Not  at  home,"  was  the  short  answer. 

"Gone  up  the  hills,  I  suppose?" 

*'  Perhaps  so." 

''But  you  can't  say  for  certain,  if  your  life  depended 
on  it !" 

"  Mr.  Bmce  doesn't  trouble  himself  to  tell  me  for  certain 
where  he's  goinsi;." 

"  And  you  don't  trouble  yourself  to  ask,  of  course  !  And 
you  don't  know,  either,  I  suppose,  how  long  he  means  to  be 
staying  in  these  parts  ?" 

"  He  doesn't  tell  me." 

"  Nor  where  he  comes  from,  nor  where  he's  going  to  !  nor 
nothing  about  him  !     Before  I'd  trust  such  a  man  ! " 

*'  You  aren't  asked  to  trast  him,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

'•  He'd  find  it  mighty  difi"ereut  if  I  was  !  I  suppose,  now, 
he  gives  a  load  of  trouble  ?" 

"  As  much  and  as  little  as  most  people." 

"  A  sort  of  chap  who's  made  to  melt  in  your  fingers,  I 
should  say  !"  continued  Goff. 

"  He's  a  gentleman  who  does  not  trouble  himself  about 
other  people,  at  all  events !"  said  Mrs.  Robinson  indignantly. 

"  Ay  !  a  gentleman  !  I  should  have  said,  now,  he  was  that; 
though  'tisu't  all  c-entlefolks  that's  to  be  tmstcd.     But  he's 


13G  CLEVE    UALL. 

true  blood,  is  he  ?     I  loarut  to  know  the  differeuco,  in  the  old 
days,  when  you  and  I  lived  up  at  the  Hall  toj^ether." 

"  I  don't  reinoniber  when  you  and  I  ever  lived  at  any  place 
together,  Mr.  Goff,"  said  Mrs.  Robinson,  haughtily.  ''  I  recol- 
lect when  you  were  a  farm-youth  upon  the  estate ;  and  per- 
haps it  might  have  been  as  well  for  you  if  you  had  kept  to 
your  calling." 

"  That's  as  folks  think.  Every  one  to  his  liking.  Your 
friend,  now,  I  should  say,  would  never  have  had  a  sea  fancy, 
like  mine  ?" 

''  I  never  asked  him." 

*'  Oh  !  but  you  can  find  out  fast  enough,  from  what  a  man 
talks  of  and  goes  after.  Why,  there's  the  Captain!  you 
couldn't  be  with  him  five  minutes,  before  you'd  know  he  was 
a  sailor." 

''If  all  sailors  are  like  Captain  Vivian,"  replied  Mrs. 
Robinson,  "  the  fewer  the  better  I" 

''  Then  your  friend's  not  a  sailor.  I  thought  as  much  as 
that  the  night  of  the  wreck.  He'd  never  have  let  himself 
be  capsized,  if  he'd  had  an  ounce  of  old  ocean  in  him.  He's 
from  foreign  parts,  though  ?" 

"The  vessel  came  from  America,  as  you  know." 
"  Yes,  sure  I  do  know.  Who  should  better?  for  I've  had 
more  to  do  with  her  than  most  folks.  But  I  should  say  it 
might  have  touched  at  other  places — Jamaica,  now;_  I'm 
downright  certain  somebody  said  it  had  touched  at  Jamaica." 
"Perhaps  it  might.  Have  you  anything  more  to  say, 
particular,  Mr.  Goff?     I  must  go  in-doors.'' 

"Only  that  I've  got  a  nephew  living  in  Jamaica;  and  I 
should  just  like  to  know  whether  this  gentleman  knows  any- 
thing about  him." 

"Not  likely,  I  shoidd  think." 

"I  don't  know.  •'Tisu't  siich  a  large  place.  I've  had  a 
good  many  thoughts  about  my  nephew  lately.  Possibly  you'd 
do  a  good  deed,  and  ask  about  him  ?" 

"I  can't  trouble  Mr.  Bruce  about  anybody's  nephew,"  ex- 
claimed JNIrs.  Robinson.  "  He  has  enough  to  do  to  take  care 
of  himself." 

"UmphI — and  his  children,  I  suppose.  You  wouldn't 
have  him  not  take  a  care  for  them  ?" 

"  Not  if  he  has  any.     But  I  can't  stand  here  any  longer. 

If  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Bruce,  you'll  please  to  leave  a  message." 

"  No,  I  can't  say  I  wished  particularly  to  see  him  ;  only  1 


CLEVE    HALL.  137 

thouglit  that,  being,  as  I  supposed,  fresli  from  Jamaica,  lie 
might  be  able  to  give  me  a  word  or  two  about  my  nephew. 
Or  perchance,  when  he  writes,  he'd  make  an  inquiry  for  me. 
When  will  he  be  in  ?" 

''  I  can't  say." 

"  Somewhere  before  eight,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  don't  know;  he  is  likely  to  be  out  all  the  evening." 

"  Ay  !  gone  up  to  Parson  Lester's ;  I  could  have  guessed  so 
much." 

"  I  didn't  say  he  was  gone  there." 

"  Only  if  he's  to  be  out  all  the  evening,  he's  not  likely  to 
be  gone  anywhere  else.  There's  a  way,  you  see,  of  putting 
two  and  two  together.  But  never  mind,  I'm  not  going  to 
trouble  him  nor  you  neither ;  so  good  afternoon  to  yon." 

He  went  out  at  the  wicket-gate.  Mrs.  Robinson's  coun- 
tenance was  wonderfully  imperturbable ;  but  certainly,  after 
that  interview,  a  shade  of  restless  anxiety  might  have  been 
traced  in  it. 

And  Mr.  Bruce  pursued  his  way  to  the  cottage  of  Jacob 
Clarke,  the  sexton.  It  stood  alone,  at  the  end  of  the  lane 
leading  to  the  church  hill ;  and  some  might  have  thought  it  a 
desolate  home  for  the  sickly  man  who  inhabited  it ;  but  Jacob 
would  not  have  exchanged  it  for  the  most  spacious  dwelling- 
house  in  the  village.  It  was  a  palace  to  him,  for  it  was  in  full 
view  of  the  church ;  and  in  the  church,  since  its  restoration 
by  General  Vivian  and  Mr.  Lester,  all  the  pride  of  the  sexton's 
heart  seemed  to  have  concentrated  itself. 

He  was  working  in  his  garden  when  Mr.  Bruce  came  up; 
but  the  moment  he  saw  him,  the  spade  was  laid  aside,  and  he 
was  feeling  in  his  pocket  for  the  heavy  keys,  which  were  his 
inseparable  companions. 

"  You'll  be  for  going  up,  I  suppose.  Sir,"  he  said,  almost 
before  Mr.  Bruce  came  within  hearing. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  it,  Jacob;  but  I  won't  trouble  you,  if 
you'll  just  let  me  take  the  keys.  You  are  busy  I  see.  How 
arc  your  eyes  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  Baddish  ;  this  left  one,  special.  They  say  I  shan't  get 
any  better  till  I  get  worse,  and  then  I  can  have  something 
dune  to  them ;  but  I  rub  on  with  hoping." 

"  IIa]ipy  for  you  that  you  can.  Just  let  me  have  the  keys, 
and  I  will  bring  them  back  quite  safely.     You  can  trust  me." 

"  I  trust  your  voice  more  than  your  look,"  replied  Jacob, 
Trith  a  grim  smile.     "I've  learnt  a  good  deal  to  know  people 


138  CLE VI?    HALL. 

t.f  late  by  thoir  voices  ;  and  there's  a  sound  in  yours  that  some- 
how  oonios  home  to  nie  natural." 

]\Ir.  Bruce  stretched  out  his  hand  for  tlie  keys. 

Jacob  hesitated.  "I'm  thiukina;, — I'll  tell  ye  what,  I'll 
e'en  co  up  with  ye  ;  the  di5J:a;iiip;  will  do  well  enouf;h  to-morrow, 
und  i  should  just  like  to  know  what  you'll  say  to  the  old  place, 
"lis  a  beautiful  one  outside  now,  ain't  it?" 

"  Yes,  very  beautiful.     The  old  walls,  I  sec  ?" 

"  Ay !  sure ;  we  should  all  have  broke  our  hearts  if  th(> 
old  walls  had  been  down.  It's  the  .viiidows  that's  new  chiefly 
— outside,  that  is;  inside  you'll  see  it's  wonderful." 

''  And  all  done  by  Mr.  Lester?"  ■ 

''No,  no;  Mr.  Lester  helped,  as  a  ,e;ood  man  would;  but 
'twas  the  General,  chief.  He'd  been  thiiikiniz:  of  it,  they  say, 
for  a  lou<^  time,  and  'twas  the  first  thing  that  seemed  to  cheer 
him  up  after  all  his  troubles." 

They  were  ascending  the  steps  together  as  Jacob  said  this. 
Mr.  ]?ruce  stopped. 

''You're  out  of  breath,  Sir." 

"No,  scarcely;  but  I  am  not  very  strong.  How  long  ago 
did  you  say  it  was  since  the  restoration  of  the  church  V 

"  Some  twelve  years  now,  Sir,  since  it  was  finished;  but  it 
took  a  long  time  about.  I  declare  now  I  was  sorry,  in  a  way, 
when  it  came  to  an  end ;  and  so,  I  suspect,  was  the  General : 
he  was  up  here  most  every  day,  watching  how  it  went  on." 

"  He  began  it  after  his  troubles  :  he  has  had  a  good  many, 
I  suppose  ?" 

"You  may  say  that;  a  hard  life,  poor  old  gentleman! 
And  now  between  seventy  and  eighty,  and  no  one  near  him 
but  Miss  Mildred ;  and  all  the  old  feuds  as  bitter  as  ever ! 
Somehow  it's  strange  when  a  man's  travelling  to  his  grave. 
But  there !  it's  the  way  of  the  world." 

"  There  have  been  family  disputes,  then  ?" 

"Not  so  much  disputes;  but  the  General's  iipplsh, — bent 
on  his  own  ways.  It's  been  the  fashion  of  the  Vivians  from 
father  to  son." 

"  And  the  General  is  very  determined  ?" 
"  Firm  as  an  old  oak.  He'd  break,  but  he'd  never  bend. 
I  oau't  help  thinking  sometimes,  on  looking  back,  that  'twould 
have  been  better  for  him  if  he  could.  But  now.  Sir,  just  take 
your  seat  here,  and  look  round.  You  won't  get  a  finer  sight 
than  that  all  over  the  country."  Jacob  pointed  to  a  wooden 
bench  placed  at  the  top  of  the  steps  for  the  accommodation  of 


CLEVE    HALL.  130 

the  old  people.  "  You'll  not  be  sorry  to  rest,  I  dare  say,  after 
this  pull  up  the  steps ;  and  you'll  get  a  notion  of  the  country 
which  may  help  you.  There's  not  a  bit  of  the  village,  as  you 
see,  to  be  seen ;  only  the  hills.  But  on  the  right,  there  are 
the  woods — the  Cleve  woods.  That  is  the  beginning  of 
General  Vivian's  property." 

"  How  fiir  does  it  extend  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Bruce. 

"  Extend  !  Why,  he's  got  the  whole  of  Encombe,  not  a 
cottage  in  the  place  but  belongs  to  him.  Only  one  farm — The 
Grange  they  call  it — which  is  not  his ;  and  sorrow's  the  day 
that  Captain  John  ever  went  to  live  in  it." 

"  Captain  Vivian,  I  suppose  you  mean.  I  have  heard  some 
of  the  poor  people  speak  of  him  as  Captain  John." 

"  They  call  him  that,  I  can't  say  exactly  why.  He's  not 
a  regular  captain,  though  he's  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  the 
sea,  they  say,  of  late  years.  Pie  likes  sailor  fashions,  and  so 
he  goes  by  the  name ;  but  he's  not  fit  to  be  a  Vivian."  Jacob 
lowered  his  voice,  as  if  communicating  this  fact  confidentially. 

Mr.  Bruce  turned  away  his  head — the  sexton's  face  seemed 
peering  into  his.  Jacob  continued,  in  the  same  under  tone : 
"  The  long  and  the  short  of  the  matter  is,  he's  a  disgrace  to 
the  family,  and  the  ruin  and  the  curse  of  every  one  that  joins 
with  him.  And  he's  been  so  for  years,  and  his  fathers  before 
him-  and  no  wonder  the  General  can't  abide  him,  when  he's 
been  working  against  him  and  his  set  from  a  boy." 

''From  a  boy?  I  thought  the  great  quarrel  had  been  of 
late  years,  about — about — General  Vivian's  sou." 

"  Oh !  you've  heard  of  all  that,  have  you  ?"  said  Jacob, 
with  some  disappointment  in  his  tone.  "  Sure  enough,  there 
was  a  great  quarrel  about  Master  Edward ;  but  'twasn't  that 
was  the  beginning,  as  who  should  know  better  than  1." 

"  Because  you  lived  in  the  family,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr 
Bruce,  rising  from  his  seat. 

''You'd  best  rest  a  minute  or  two  longer,  Sir;  your  voice 
is  quite  shaky  now ;  and  there's  no  hurry.  What  were  you 
saying  ?  Oh  !  about  my  having  lived  in  the  family.  Well ! 
I  did  live  there,  or,  at  least,  my  father  did,  which  was  much 
the  same  thing.  He  was  the  butler,  and  I  worked  in  the  gar- 
den, and  about  in  difi'erent  ways,  making  myself  useful;  and 
so  of  course  I  came  to  know  a  good  deal  of  the  goings  on ; 
ind  sad  enough  they  were  at  times." 

"  But  General  Vivian  always  lived  a  very  steady  life,"  said 
Mr.  Bruce,  quietly. 


1  10  CLEVK    HALL. 

''  Oh  !  stOiidy  !is  old  Tiino,  for  that ;  too  steady  perhaps;  at 
least,  soiuelioAS  it  didn't  scoiii  to  turn  out  well.  IJut,  you  see, 
his  lather,  and  his  grandfather  before  him,  liad  been  just  act- 
ing ditierent ; — spending  here,  and  throwing  away  there,  till 
at  last,  when  the  General  came  into  his  property,  I've  been 
told,  there  wasn't  fifty  acres  of  it  strictly  his  own,  'twas  all 
so  luunpered  with  debts;  and  Captain  John's  friends  having 
a  pretty  large  share  of  the  claims.  Theirs  was  the  younger 
branch  of  the  family;  and  they  lived  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  were  always  quari'elling,  and  bringing  lawsuits,  and  these 
and  the  extravagance  had  just  ruined  the  property. 

**  Well !  the  General,  as  1  said,  was  a  tirni  man,  not  a  bit 
like  those  that  had  gone  before  him.  Where  he  got  his  cha- 
racter nobody  could  think;  but  'tis  said  that  his  mother  was 
something  of  the  same  kind.  If  she  was,  she  hadn't  power 
to  keep  her  husband  from  ruin  or  next  to  it.  Perhaps  she 
may  have  tried  most  with  the  children ;  for  certain  it  is,  that 
when  the  General  came  into  his  property — and  that  was  when 
he  was  very  young,  only  twenty-five,  after  his  elder  brother's 
death — he  set  his  mind  to  one  thought,  and  only  one,  how  to 
get  matters  straight.  My  father  was  in  his  service  then,  and 
for  old  love's  sake — for  he'd  known  him  from  a  boy — helped 
him  right  and  left.  But  'twas  hard  work ;  and  there  isn't 
many  that  would  have  borne  to  live  as  they  did  in  those  days 
— the  General  still  keeping  to  be  a  soldier,  and  scrimping  and 
pinching;  and  no  servants  scarce  at  the  Hall;  no  company 
when  he  was  at  home ;  no  carriages — scarce,  indeed,  butter  to 
your  bread.  But  it  answered  :  what,  indeed,  wouldn't  answer 
which  the  General  set  his  mind  to  ?  First  one  thing  was  paid 
off",  and  then  another;  and  the  rumor  got  abroad  that  Cleve 
Hall  was  looking  up  in  the  world  again ;  and  sure  enough, 
'twas  true.  No  thanks,  though,  to  any  of  the  other  Vivians, 
who  did  all  they  could  to  stop  matters,  and  nearly  sent  the 
General  frantic;  for  with  all  his  close  ways  for  himself,  he 
ff^asn't  a  bit  so  with  others;  and  when  claims  were  made,  if 
there  was  but  a  shadow  of  honesty  in  them,  he  was  ever  for 
paying. them;  being  honorable,  he  called  it.  As  my  father 
used  to  say,  he  was  always  riding  his  virtues  to  death ;  and 
'tis  my  belief,  the  other  Vivians  would  have  been  much  more 
honorable  if  they  hadn't  known  that  what  they  set  up  for  they 
were  sure  to  have." 

"  And  they  were  living  in  Encombc  then  ?"  inquired  Mr 
Bruce. 


CLEVE   HALL.  141 

'^  Near  it,  Sir.  I  liopc  I  ain't  tiring  J'ou.  I  thoiiglit  you 
seeiiiod  to  have  a  care  to  know  altout  them.  They  had  a  house 
the  other  side  of  Cleve,  and  a  good  bit  of  property  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  General  would  have  given  anything  they 
asked  for  the  kind,  but  they  never  would  part  with  it.  'Twas 
their  pleasure  to  be  close  to  him  to  spite  him.  I  don't  think, 
though,  he  took  it  much  to  heart  then  j  "he  didn't  see  the  trou- 
ble it  was  like  to  bring  upon  him. 

''  But  he  married  at  last, — 'twas  after  a  good  many  years. 
His  lady  was  very  young,  and  wonderfully  pretty ;  not  a  bit 
like  what  you'd  have  thought  he'd  choose.  I  don't  mean  as 
to  being  pretty,  but  as  to  lightheartedness,  and  not  thinking. 
As  for  him,  he'd  never  been  young ;  care  had  come  upon  him 
so  early,  and  his  stiif  ways  and  set  notions  weren't  to  be  bro- 
ken. And  so  when  they  came  to  live  at  the  Hall — that  was 
directly  he  married — for  'twas  one  of  his  notions  never  to 
marry  till  he  could  bring  his  wife  to  her  settled  home — things 
were  not  so  very  much  changed  from  what  they  had  been  be- 
fore ;  I  mean  as  to  servants  and  housekeeping.  I  know  even 
in  my  own  father  'twas  to  be  seen.  He'd  been  so  taught  to 
be  particular,  that  he  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  abide  a  pen- 
ny's being  spent  where  there  wasn't  strict  occasion.  And  very 
good,  of  course,  it  was,  only  now  and  then  it  stnick  me  that 
he  didn't  see  where  there  was  occasion.  The  lady,  as  I  said, 
was  different.  She  liked  to  have  things  handsome  about  her, 
and  to  see  her  friends,  and  to  be  gay ;  and  the  General  was 
desperately  fond  of  her,  and  indulged  her  in  her  fancies  as 
much  as  'twas  in  his  nature.  But  'twasn't  done  with  a  hearty 
goodwill ;  and  specially  it  used  to  fret  him,  so  I've  heard,  to 
see  Master  Edward  turning  after  his  mother's  fashions  rather 
than  after  his  own.  Are  you  in  a  hurry,  Sir  ?"  for  Mr.  Bruce 
moved  impatiently. 

"No,  no;  go  on.  Master  Edward,  you  say,  turned  after 
his  mother?" 

•'Yes,  sir,  in  a  way;  but  I  don't  think  he  ever  had  hei 
thought — for  Mrs.  Vivian,  with  all  her  merry  ways,  had  a 
care  for  every  one  about  her.  But  perhaps  it  wasn't  to  be  ex- 
pecied  of  Master  Edward.  He  was  young,  and  an  only  son, 
and  the  property  was  all  to  be  his  ;  and  so  he  looked  upon  it 
as  his  own  too  early,  it's  my  belief.  Any  how,  from  time  to 
time  there  was  black  looks  at  the  Hall,  and  'twas  well  seen 
things  weren't  going  on  smoothly.  Captain  John  was  at  the 
btjttum  of  a  good  deal   then,  Jis  he  has  been  since.     He  waa 


142  CLEYE    HALL. 

iiiucli  :i1)out  Master  Edward's  ago,  and  spito  of  all  (lie  deuenil 
cmild  say,  thoy  made  friends  together.  Not  so  strange  that, 
as  you  may  think,"  continued  Jacob,  observing  that  JNIr.  IJruce 
gave  a  start,  as  he  supposed,  of  surprise.  "  1  remember  Cap- 
tain John  myself  in  those  days;  and  there  was  a  good  deal 
that  a  man  might  like,  particularly  a  young  man,  not  vei-y 
knowing  of  the  world,  like  Master  Edward.  He  was  very 
fr(>espokcn  and  hearty  ;  and  that  took  with  IMastcr  Edward 
all  the  more  because  his  father  thwarted  liim,  and  his  life  up 
at  the  Hall  was  too  get  up  and  stift"  for  a  young  man's  mind." 

"  Mr.  Vivian  had  sisters,  though,"  observed  Mr.  Bruce, 
with  something  of  reproach  in  his  tone, 

"  Well  !  he  had,  and  a  prettier,  nicer  pair  of  young  ladies 
there  wasn't  to  be  found  in  all  the  country  round,  livit,  you 
know,  sir,  we  see  it  every  day;  women  can't  make  up  all  to 
men,  any  more  than  men  can  make  up  all  to  women.  There's 
a  need  of  their  own  kind  ;  and  so,  when  Master  Edward  came 
from  school  and  from  college,  he  must  needs  take  to  Captain 
John,  just  because  he  hadn't  any  one  else  to  go  to.  And  this 
made  the  General  desperate.  His  mother  and  the  young  ladies, 
I  believe,  tried  a  good  deal  to  stop  it.  I  know  my  father  said, 
that  many's  the  time  he  has  come  into  the  room  and  heard  them 
begging  Master  Edward,  for  dear  life,  just  to  keep  away  from 
what  the  General  didn't  approve.  But  he  was  strange,  ]Mas- 
ter  Edward  was ; — somehow  strong  and  not  strong — strong  for 
his  own  will,  and  not  strong  for  anything  else;  and  so  he'd 
promise  for  a  time,  and  then,  when  Captain  John  came  in  his 
way,  it  was  all  the  same  as  before.  And  you  see,  sir,"  and 
Jacob  lowered  his  tone  as  if  knowing  that  he  was  approachino' 
a  dangerous  topic,  "  he  was  afraid  of  his  father ;  so,  in  fact, 
thoy  all  were.  It  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  deal  of  mischief.  If 
a  thing  was  wrong,  'twas  always  to  be  kept  from  the  General, 
because  he'd  no  mercy." 

"  But  I  thought  the  General  was  gentle  to  women,"  said 
Mr.  Bruce;   ''you  said  he  was  so  to  his  wife." 

"  Gentle  in  his  own  way,  but  'twas  a  lion's  gentleness. 
Cross  him  in  his  fancies  once,  and  you'd  never  do  it  a  second 
time.  Not  that  he  went  oif  in  a  passion — 'twas  all  cold  and 
stony ;  but  knocking  at  his  heart,  when  he  was  oflfended,  was 
like  knocking  at  a  wall.  He  was  wonderfully  proud  though 
of  his  daughters,  specially  of  Miss  Edith,  the  eldest.  Folks 
said  that  'twas  because  she  was  so  like  her  mother.  And  cer- 
rain  she  was  very  like  her ;  not  quite  so  pretty  perhaps,  and 


CLEVE    HALL.  143 

yet  witli  a  face  that  did  one's  heart  good  to  look  upon  ;  and 
always  a  pleasant  smile,  and  a  merry  word — and  such  a  laugh  ! 
Ah,  sir,  the  Hall's  a  different  place  now  from  what  it  was  when 
she  was  living  !     She  lies  now " 

Mr.  Bruce  rose  suddenly.  "  We  will  go  into  the  church  ; 
give  me  the  keys."  He  held  out  his  hand  for  them,  but  with- 
out staying  to  receive  them,  hurried  along  the  little  paved  path 
leading  to  the  porch. 

Jacob  followed  him  with  a  wondering  gaze.  "  Poor  gen- 
tleman !  then  what  they  say  of  him  is  true,  and  he's  daft, 
sure  !"  With  a  slow  step,  he  plodded  along  the  strip  of  worn 
pavement,  murmuring  as  he  went,  "■  He'd  have  heard  to  the 
end,  for  certain,  if  he  wasn't  daft." 

But  Mr.  Bruce  was  standing  composedly  in  the  porch  now ; 
and  conscious  probably  of  his  own  impatience,  he  addressed 
the  sexton  with  something  of  an  apology  for  his  abrupt- 
ness: "  I  was  feeling  the  cold;  it  is  cold  iu  the  wind.  Let 
me  have  the  keys,  and,  thank  you,  I  won't  keep  you." 

"  By  your  leave,  sir" — Jacob's  self-love  was  a  little  wound- 
ed, for  he  had  been  wasting  his  wo*'ds — "  the  keys  are  my 
chief  charge,  as  you  may  say,  and  I'd  best  look  after  them;  sq 
I'll  just  open  the  door  and  wait,  for  it  seems  you'll  not  be 
wanting  to  have  much  told  you." 

His  tone  of  annoyance  was  evident,  and  Mr.  Bruce's  man- 
ner softened  into  consideration. 

"  You  shall  tell  me  more,  Jacob,  only  not  now — not  now," 
he  repeated  to  himself,  and  he  took  the  man's  hand  and  wrung 
it  heartily.  "Thank  you,  you  loved  them  all;  yes,  I  know 
you  did." 

"Daft!"  was  again  Jacob's  comment  to  himself;  but  he 
changed  his  intention,  and  instead  of  resting  himself  in  the 
porch,  followed  Jlr.  Brace  into  the  church. 

It  was  of  moderate  size,  and  consisted  of  two  aisles.  The 
east  end  of  the  south  aisle  was  a  kind  of  chapel  for  the  Vivian 
family,  divided  from  the  chancel  by  an  oak  screen,  but  open 
to  the  rest  of  the  church.  Three  large,  exquisitely-worked 
monuments,  of  the  date  of  the  fourteenth  centuiy,  the  carving 
of  which  had  been  cleaned,  and  in  part  colored  and  gilded  ac- 
cording to  the  original  design,  filled  up  the  centre.  The 
deeply-cut  letters  engraven  upon  them,  told  that  the  recum- 
bent figures,  so  meekly  lifting  up  their  hands  to  heaven,  were 
iho  effigies  of  Willian:  and  Everard  Vivian,  and  of  Walter  and 


144  CLEVE   HALL. 

Eleanor  liis  wife,  the  first  of  (lie  name  who  were  the  pos- 
sessors (*f  the  uiaiior  of  Cleve. 

The  stran,f;-er  did  not  pause  to  examine  any  part  of  the 
eliurch  in  detail,  lie  stayed  not  to  mark  the  beauty  of  the 
decorated  chancel-screen,  nor  to  marvel  at  the  exceeding  rich- 
ness of  the  stone  rcredos,  nor  the  gorgcousness  of  the  east 
window.  He  passed  without  notice  the  long  flickering  lines 
of  fairy  light  streaming  across  the  marble  tombs;  but  his  eye 
wandered  over  the  walls,  and  the  pavement,  marked  with 
quaint  figures  of  the  honored  of  olden  time,  and  more  modern 
yet  already  half-defaced  inscriptions,  till  it  rested  upon  a  small 
plate,  let  into  the  floor  of  the  Vivian  chapel,  and  inscribed 
w^ith  the  name  of  Edith  Vivian. 

"Yes,  that's  where  she  lies.  Sir." 

It  was  a  ghastly  face  which  met  the  sexton's  gaze,  but  he 
could  not  see  its  change ;  and  the  voice  which  answered  him 
was  unaltered,  save  perhaps  that  the  tone  was  lowered,  to  suit 
the  sacrcducss  of  the  building. 

"  I  see — I  know  it  is  the  Vivian  chapel." 

''  The  place  where  they  all  rest,  Sir,  from  father  to  son, 
from  generation  to  generation.  But  there'll  be  none  to  follow 
now." 

The  stranger  gazed  upon  that  small  brass  plate  with  a  fixed- 
ness which  seemed  fascination.  "  Seventeen  years  ago,"  he 
murmured  to  himself. 

"Just  seventeen,  come  Michaelmas  —  the  year  after  the 
troubles  :  they  broke  her  heart." 

The  words  were  heard,  for  a  tremulous  shudder  passed  over 
the  stranger's  frame ;  and  seizing  Jacob's  arm,  and  holding  it 
by  a  grasp  which  it  was  impossible  to  resist,  he  led  him  again 
into  the  porch.  There,  standing  before  him,  quietly,  yet  with 
a  sternness,  the  result  of  strong  self-control  rather  than  of 
anger,  he  repeated :  "  They  broke  her  heart,  did  you  say?" 

"  Why,  yes,  yes.  Sir,"  Jacob  looked  around  him  in  alarm. 

''  You  were  telling  me  about  it  before, — let  me  hear." 

The  tone  was  too  decided  to  be  disobeyed;  yet  Jacob's 
voice  shook  as  he  began,  and  his  words  were  uttered  xuiequally, 
whilst  stealthily  he  raised  his  dim  eyes  to  catch,  if  possible, 
the  impression  which  he  was  making  upon  the  moody,  sullen, 
withered-looking  man,  whose  excitable  feelings  he  had  evi- 
dently, but  unexpectedly,  from  some  unknown  cause,  aroused. 

"  They  said  it  was  caused  by  the  troubles,"  he  began, 
''and  I  never  heard  there  was  reason   to  doubt  it.     Sure 


CLEVE   HALL.  145 

enough,  before  they  came,  she  was  blithe  as  a  bird ;  and  the 
day  she  heard  of  them  she  fell  sick, — and  the  same  day  twelve- 
month they  laid  her  in  her  grave.  Would  you  wish  to  hear 
more,  Sir." 

There  was  neither  assent  nor  dissent.  It  seemed  that  the 
stranger  could  not  trust  himself  with  words. 

Jacob  went  on :  "  You  know  about  Master  Edward,  Sir ; 
perhaps  there's  no  need  to  go  over  the  story;  and  who  can 
tell  the  rights  of  it  ?" 

*'  Ay  !  who  ?"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  impetuously. 

"  It's  my  belief  there's  more  to  be  known  about  that  matter 
than  people  think  for,"  continued  the  sexton,  more  heartily, 
feeling  encouraged  by  even  a  word  of  sympathy;  "my  father 
always  said  so,  and  he  was  like  to  know  the  truth,  seeing  he 
lived  so  long  in  the  family ;  but  the  General  was  never  one  to 
be  dealt  with  like  other  folks.  You  know,  Sir,  Master  Ed- 
ward went  abroad." 

"  I  have  heard  so." 

"  That  was  after  he  left  college,  and  after  his  mother's 
death.  Poor  lady !  if  she  had  lived,  no  doubt  things  would 
have  been  different.  As  it  was,  he  only  got  into  mischief 
when  he  was  at  home ;  and  the  General,  'twas  said,  thought 
that  a  new  country  might  give  him  new  notions.  To  say  the 
truth  of  him,  he  had  not  got  any  that  were  what  you  may 
say  bad,  only  quite  different  from  his  father's:  the  General 
being  set  upon  keeping  up  dignity,  as  he  called  it,  and  getting 
back  more  and  more  of  the  estate,  and  setting  off  his  family 
upon  a  new  footing ;  and  Master  Edward  not  thiukiijg  a  whit 
about  it,  but  only  mindful  to  take  things  easy  himself,  and  let 
every  one  else  do  the  same.  I've  heard  tell  too,  that  one  of 
the  causes  why  the  General  was  so  bent  upon  getting  his  son 
out  of  the  covintry  just  then,  was  because  of  the  young  lady, 
one  of  the  Campbells, — they  lived  at  the  Manor  Farm ; — 
you'll  know  Mrs.  Campbell  of  the  Lodge  now,  Sir  ?  She's 
the  mother." 

"  Yes,  yes ;"  the  quick  tone  was  not  impatience,  but  agony. 
''  The  truth  of  that.  Sir,  is  what  I  can't  vouch  for.  If 
there  was  anything  going  on,  they  managed  to  keep  it  won- 
derfully close;  but  the  General  might  have  found  it  out;  and 
if  he  did,  he  was  sure  to  make  the  most  of  it,  I'll  warrant 
you.  He  hated  the  Campbells  like  mad.  They  had  always 
sided  with  the  other  Vivians;  and  there  was  some  old  family 
difference  from  I  can't  tell  how  many  years  back;  and  of  lato 

7 


14G  CLEVU    HALL. 

the  CampLells  had  gone  down  in  the  world,  and  tliore  h.-id 
been  some  bad  marriages,  which  had  brought  thcni  still  lower. 
Old  Mrs.  Campbell — she  that's  id  the  Lodge  now — was  the 
dauiihter  of  some  man  quite  nothing  compared  with  the  Ge- 
neral, and  so  there  were  relations  and  connexions  wdiom  he 
didn't  choose  to  have  anything  to  do  with ;  in  fact,  I've  heard 
my  father  say  that  it  was  quite  a  cat-and-dog  life  the  two 
families  Uvcd ;  and  you  may  well  think,  Sir,  how  troubled  the 
General  would  be  when  he  thought  his  only  son  was  likely  to 
mix  himself  up  with  them.  Any  how,  Master  Edward  went 
abroad.  And  glad  enough  he  was  to  go,  'tis  my  belief,  except 
for  the  thought  of  parting  with  his '^ sisters,  'specially  Miss 
Edith.  SheVas,  in  a  way,  his  favorite.  I  saw  them  as  they 
stood  together  before  the  door,  just  as  the  carriage  was  coming 
up  to  take  IMastcr  Edward  away.  She  was  like  an  angel,  so 
loving  and  pretty,  and  putting  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and 
kissing  him,  and  telling  him  that  'twouldu't  be  home  till  he 
came  back ;  and  he  smiling,  and  trying  to  comfort  her,  and 
saying  how  he  was  going  to  enjoy  himself;  and  then  looking 
up  at  Miss  Mildred,  who  was  lying  on  her  sofa  by  the  window 
— for  'twas  just  then  she  began  to  get  ill— and  nodding  to 
her,  and  promising  to  bring  her  all  kinds  of  fine  things  from 
abroad.  Ay  !  they  were  mainly  set  upon  one  another,  those 
two  sisters  and  Master  Edward." 

"  And  the  General  ?" 

"  He  looked  on  upon  them,  stern-like,  with  his  arms  crossed 
in  his  fashion,  saying  the  young  ladies  were  silly,  and  would 
make  any  one  a  fool,  with  their  care ;  yet  pleased  too,  for  he 
patted  Miss  Edith  on  the  cheek,  and  called  her  Sunbeam, 
which  was  the  name  some  of  the  villagers  gave  her ;  and  then 
he  shook  Master  Edward's  hand  heartily,  and  said,  '  God  bless 
you,  my  boy ;'  and  it's  my  belief  there  was  a  tear  in  his  eye. 
If  there  was,  it's  the  first  tear  that  ever  mortal  saw  there. 
Miss  Edith  had  the  last  word.  Master  Edward  put  his  head 
out  of  the  carriage-window  and  said  —  the  words  stayed  in 
ray  mind  for  days  after, — 'Edith,  darling!  keep  yip;  you'll 
soon  learn  to  live  without  me.'  'Twas  a  man's  mistake,  sir. 
She  tried  to  live  without  him,  and  she  died." 

The  sexton  paused,  for  his  voice  had  grown  tremulous  and 
husky ;  and  INIr.  Bruce,  too,  passed  his  hand  oyer  his  eyes, 
and  sat  down,  his  hands  firmly  clenching  the  stick  on  which 
he  rested. 

Jacob  continued  : — "Soon  after  Master  Edward's  departure. 


CLEVE    HALL.  147 

tlie  Campbells  went,  and  then  Encorabe  and  Cleve  were  quiet 
enough,  with  uo  gentry  about,  but  the  General  and  the  two 
young  ladies.  That  is  the  time  I  can  remember  best  myself. 
I  had  work  in  the  garden ;  and  my  father  having,  as  I  told 
you,  been  butler  for  so  many  years,  I  was  pretty  often  in  the 
house,  and  got  a  tolerable  glimmering  of  how  things  went  on." 

"  And  Edith  ?" — the  words  escaped  hurriedly,  and  were 
immediately  corrected, — "  Miss  Vivian  ?  was  she  well,  then, 
and  happy  V 

"She  took  on  sadly  at  first,"  rejtlied  the  sexton;  "but 
'twasn't  a  heart  to  live  upon  trouble ;  and  when  news  came 
that  Master  Edwai'd  was  well  and  happy,  and  likely  to  return 
before  long,  she  cheered  up  mainly,  and  for  the  first  part  of 
that  year  she  was  the  life  of  the  house.  ^Twould  have  been 
rather  a  dull  one  but  for  her.  Miss  Mildred  was  very  cheer- 
ful, but  quiet-like;  and  the  General  never  seemed  so  proud 
of  her  as  he  was  of  Miss  Edith.  He  would  go  to  her  when 
there  was  business  to  be  done,  for  she  was  more  clear-headed, 
and  ready  to  do  everything  for  everybody,  and  a  kind  word  for 
all;  but  she  wasn't  blithe,  like  Miss  Edith,  who  was  always 
singing  and  dancing  about  the  house.  And  then  Miss  Mil- 
dred was  sickly;  and  somehow  the  General  was  one  who  didn't 
take  to  sickly  folks ;  he  didn't  understand  them,  and  was 
always  thinking  they  could  get  up  and  do  just  the  same  as 
others.  The  two  young  ladies,  though,  were  marvellous  fond 
of  each  other ;  'twas  quite  a  sight  to  see  them  together,  they 
wore  so  one-like ;  and  so,  upon  the  whole,  it  was  a  very  happy 
hume." 

"  Till  the  storm  came." — It  was  a  voice  like  the  rising  of 
a  storm  which  spoke.  Jacob  stopped  for  an  instant,  startled 
by  it. 

"Ay,  sir,  as  you  say,  till  the  storm  came;  and  that  was 
soon  enough.  Master  Edward  had  been  away  some  months 
when  it  began  to  brew ;  how,  I  don't  quite  know,  but  when 
the  letters  came  of  a  morning,  I  used  to  hear  my  father  say, 
he'd  rather  face  a  cannon-ball  than  carry  them  up  to  the  Gene- 
ral ;  he  was  so  put  out  by  the  news  he  had.  Some  rumor 
.was  afloat  that  jMastcr  Edward  had  been  spending  a  deal  of 
money ;  and  that  seemed  likely  enough,  seeing  that  'twas 
always  his  way;  but  no  one  knew  for  certain.  At  last,  one 
morning,  I'd  been  in  the  garden,  weeding  the  flower-beds,  and 
Ihon  I  was  sent  into  the  park  to  give  some  help  about  a  fence 
that  was  to  be  moved;  and  as  I  was  hard  at  work,  not  think' 


148  CLEVE    HALL. 

iii^-  of  anythinfj,  one  of  the  boys  working  witli  mc  looked  up, 
and  says  he,  'Jacob,  who's  that  cominiTj  across  here?'  'Twas 
a  tall,  swajrji'ovinsjj-luokiiig  fellow,  walking;  cjuilc  as  if  he  was 
somebody,  and  was  to  be  obeyed;  and  behind,  a  short,  bluff 
man,  a  kind  of  servant.  The  first  I  knew  directly,  for  I'd 
seen  Captain  Vivian  often  enou<i'h,  and  had  a  full  remembrance 
of  him,  and  his  doings.  The  other  I've  learnt  to  know  better 
since;  you  may  have  seen  him  yourself,  sir,  whilst  you've  been 
here, — a  rough-looking  fellow,  a  fisherman  he  is  now,  or  a 
pnniiru'ler,  as  most  people  say;  he's  always  out  upon  the 
I'oint." 

"  Goff !  yes,  I  know  him  well,  very  well;"  and  there  was  a 
marked  emphasis  upon  the  words. 

"  lie  had  work  about  the  place  out  of  doors,  as  a  boy; 
and  then  he  was  taken  into  the  house,  and  made  a  servant  for 
JNIaster  Edward,  and  he  had  carried  him  abroad;  but  it  seems 
somehow  they  hadn't  suited,  and  he  had  been  turned  over  to 
the  Captain.  So  it  was  they  were  together  that  day.  I  learnt 
all  that,  though,  afterwards." 

"  Yes,  we'll !    But  that  day  ?" 

"Ay,  that  day,  sir;  you  needn't  think  I'm  likely  to  for- 
get it.  I  saw  the  Captain  and  the  other  fellow  go  straight  up 
to  the  house,  and,  said  I  to  myself,  there's  mischief  coming 
with  that  man,  as  sure  as  summer  comes  with  swallows.  I 
didn't  exactly  think  what  kind  of  mischief,  for  I  hadn't  heard 
much  about  where  he'd  been  lately;  else  my  thoughts  would 
surely  have  turned  to  Master  Edward.  But  something  led  me 
to  go  into  the  house,  and  wait  to  hear  what  was  going  on.  I 
followed  them  up  to  the  door,  and  the  Captain,  he  gave  a  tre- 
mendous pull  at  the  bell,  and  such  a  peal  there  was  sounding 
through  the  house  !  And  when  the  door  was  opened,  it  was  a 
kind  of  king's  voice  that  said  he  must  see  General  Vivian 
directly.  ]My  father  happened  to  be  in  the  library  at  the  time, 
whore  the  young  ladies  were  sitting.  It  was  close  to  the  front 
steps,  and  you  could  hear  quite  plainly  what  any  one  said. 
lie  told  mc  afterwards  that  Miss  Mildred  turned  very  pale 
when  she  heard  the  Captain's  voice,  and  said  she,  'Edith, 
you  go  to  my  father,  and  tell  him  who's  here.'  She  couldn't 
go  herself,  and  she  wouldn't  trust  anybody  else  with  the  mes- 
sage, knowing  how  the  General  would  hate  it.  Miss  Edith 
went  up  to  her  chair  and  kis.sed  her,  and  said,  'Never  mind, 
Mildred,  we'll  hope  on,'  or  some  words  of  that  kind;  but  she 


CLEVE    HALL.  119 

was  cast  down  herself,  scemiugly,  for  she  walked  quite  slowlj 
out  of  the  room. 

"  Captaiu  John  was  shown  into  the  little  drawing-room,  and 
a  good  long  time  he  was  kept  waiting ;  and  my  father  heard 
him  storming  away  because  of  it  with  Goff; — for  he  would 
make  him  go  with  him ;  he  wouldn't  have  him  sent  into  the 
servant's  hall,  as  was  the  custom.  At  last  the  General  rang 
his  study-bell,  and  my  father  answered  it,  as  he  always  did. 
Miss  Edith  was  behind  the  General's  chair,  smoothing  his  hair 
and  fondling  him ;  and,  to  look  at  them,  I  dare  say  you  might 
have  called  them  brother  and  sister,  instead  of  father  and 
child;  for  he  was  a  wonderfully  fine-looking  man  in  those 
days,  was  the  General,  and  bore  his  years  bravely.  '  Captain 
Vivian's  waiting  to  see  me,  Clarke,  I  hear,'  said  the  General ; 
'  he  may  come  up.  Edith,  you  must  go.'  His  voice  was  as 
firm  as  mine  is  now,  and  you  wouldn't  have  known  that  ho 
thought  or  cared  for  the  man  a  straw ;  only  that  he  had  a  trick 
of  crossing  his  legs  and  moving  his  left  foot  up  and  down  when 
he  was  sorely  pressed,  and  the  less  he  said  the  faster  his  foot 
went;  'twas  his  way  of  venting  his  passion.  The  foot  went 
like  a  see-saw  that  morning;  and  Miss  Edith  said  to  my  father, 
when  she  left  the  room,  '  Clarke,  don't  you  let  the  General  be 
tired  out.'  That  was  as  much  as  to  say,  you  be  on  your  watch 
for  what's  going  on ;  for  my  father  was  a  tnisty  and  knowing 
man,  and  many  a  time  when  the  young  ladies  had  been  troubled 
with  persons  coming  to  worry  the  General,  they  had  got  him 
to  go  in  and  interrupt  them.  So  my  father  showed  Captain 
"\'ivian  into  the  study,  and  he  saw  the  General  stand  up  and 
bow,  which  was  all  the  greeting  he  gave ;  and  any  one  but 
Captain  John  might  have  been  cowed  by  his  manner.  But 
not  a  bit  he ;  before  my  father  was  out  of  the  room  he  began, 
saying  that  he  had  come  from  a  long  distance,  and  he  thought 
it  hard  he  should  be  kept  waiting,  and  all  in  such  a  rough  way 
that  the  General  was  put  askew  almost  before  a  word  had  been 
spoken. 

"  My  father  went  back  to  his  work.  Not  a  word  did  he 
I  ell  me  or  any  one,  then;  such  a  cautious  man  he  was  about 
everything  which  concerned  the  General's  interest.  But  I 
was  mainly  curious  ;  and,  as  I  could  get  nothing  out  of  him, 
I  made  fiiends  with  the  housekeeper,  as  was  my  custom  some- 
times, and  got  a  permission  from  her  that  I  might  come  into 
the  house  and  dine.  I  was  standing  in  the  ser\"ants'  hall, 
w.iiting  abdut  a  little,  and  doing  just  what  few  things  there 


150  CLEVE    HALL. 

was  to  be  done,  when  my  father  came  in,  and  sajs  he  to  tlio 
footman,  "  Hero's  a  stranger  come  to  dine  with  you,  Charles;" 
and  with  that  he  brouglit  in  GofF.  'Twasn't  a  pleasant  hear- 
ing, exactly,  for  in  former  days  no  one  had  ever  taken  much 
to  the  man;  but  he  had  come  from  foreign  parts,  and  he'd 
seen  Master  Edward  lately;  and  so  there  was  a  good  deal  to 
say  and  to  hear,  and  we  all  got  round  him  and  began  asking 
him  questions.  I've  often  thought  since  how  queer  he  was 
on  that  day, — not  a  bit  like  what  he's  turned  out  since, — no 
blustering  and  storming,  but  a  sort  of  creep-mouse  look,  which 
somehow  turned  quite  against  me ;  and  every  now  and  then 
stopping  to  hear  if  there  w^as  a  bell,  or  a  sound.  Uut  he  wasn't 
likely  to  hear  that  with  the  clatter  which  was  going  on  in  the 
iiall,  and  after  a  while  he  seemed  to  give  up  listening,  and 
began  to  talk  very  f\ist,  telling  heaps  of  odd  stories,  and  hint- 
ing things  now  and  then  about  Master  Ed  icard  which  nearly 
made  my  hair  stand  on  end.  Yet  he  never  spoke  out;  and 
when  my  father  taxed  him  once  with  what  he  had  been  sayinir, 
and  asked  him  to  explain,  he  caught  himself  up  quite  short, 
and  looked  for  all  the  world  as  if  he  knew  he  was  tellin"-  what 
wasn't  true.  Certainly,  I  fancied  him  less  than  ever,  'specially 
when  I  saw  what  a  friend  he  was  to  the  ale  flagon.  Why  he 
drank  it  as  if  'twas  water  ! 

"  There  was  dinner  in  the  housekeeper's  room  for  my  father, 
but  not  a  bit  did  he  seem  to  trouble  himself  to  eat.  I  had  a 
notion  that  he  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  to  let  Goff  out  of 
his  sight,  for  he  was  in  and  out  of  the  hall  continually;  and, 
said  he  once  to  Goff,  '  Your  Master's  holding  a  long  story  up 
stairs.'  '  There's  plenty  to  say,  when  folks  have  been  so  long 
parted,'  said  Goff;  and  with  that  he  gave  a  kind  of  inside 
chuckle,  and  laid  down  his  knife  just  as  he  was  cutting  a  bit 
of  cheese,  and  set  himself  again  to  listen.  Sure  enough  at 
that  moment  there  was  a  bell,  a  quick-ringing  one  from  the 
General's  room.  I  chanced  to  be  looking  at  the  man  at  the 
moment.  His  face — you  wouldn't  scarce  believe  it,  for  he's  all 
over  hard  and  brown  now,  as  if  he  was  made  of  mahogany — 
but  he  hadn't  seen  such  rough  times  in  those  days,  and,  as  I 
sat  opposite  to  him,  I  noticed  that  it  turned  of  a  sudden, 
not  white,  but  a  sort  of  grayish  color,  just  for  all  the  world  as 
if  he  was  going  off  into  a  fit.  'Twas  only  for  a  moment, 
though.  He  seized  hold  of  the  ale  jug,  and  such  a  drink  as 
he  took  ! — it  seemed  all  to  go  at  a  gulp ;  and  then  down  went 
the  cup  on  the  table,  and  he  stood  up,  and  it  crossed  my  miu  ] 


CLEVE    HALL.  151 

that  he'd  had  enough  to  make  him  unsteady.  But  not  a  whit 
that !  It  had  only  brougdit  haclc  the  right  colov  to  his  cheek ; 
.and  says  he,  quickly,  'That's  for  me.'  My  father  caught  him 
up  with,  '  [low  do  you  know  it's  for  you  ?'  He  was  taken 
aback,  and  his  eyes  quite  flashed  out,  but  he  onl}'  laughed  and 
said,  'Oh  !  he  supposed  it  was,  and  he  must  he  ready;'  and, 
strange  enough,  when  my  father  went  up  stairs  he  brought 
down  word  that  Groff  was  to  go  up  directly.  I  didn't  dare  ask  if 
anything  was  the  matter,  so  many  being  about ;  but  I  was  cer- 
tiiin  that  something  was  wi'ong,  for  my  father  had  a  look  on 
him  which  I'd  seen  often  enough  to  understand.  But  dinner 
went  on,  and  was  finished,  and  every  one  went  to  his  work ; 
and  I  was  to  have  gone  to  mine,  only  my  father  had  something 
for  me  to  do  in  his  pantry.  It  wasn't  so  far  from  the  hall  but 
that  I  could  hear  people  go  in  and  out,  and  up  and  down  stairs; 
and,  after  a  while — two  hours  I  am  stire  it  Avas  froLi  the  time 
t  first  saw  the  Captain  come — he  and  Goff  took  their  departure, 
— not  blustering  and  noisy,  as  they  had  come,  but  stealing  out 
and  walking  off  to  the  village,  without  a  word  of  good  b'ye 
to  any  one. 

"  There  was  no  sound  in  the  house  for  near  half  an  hour 
afterwards.  The  young  ladies  had  had  their  lunch ;  and  where 
the}'  were,  or  what  they  were  doing,  I  couldn't  say,  only  I 
missed  Miss  Edith's  voice,  for  she  used  to  go  singing  about  like 
a  bird.  It  came  over  me,  I  remember,  as  something  awful 
that,  with  so  many  near,  there  shouldn't  be  one  to  be  heard ; 
but  before  long  a  heavy  door  slammed  to,  and  then  came  the 
General's  step  along  the  open  gallery  over  the  hall.  He  was 
going  the  way  to  the  young  ladies'  sitting-room. 

"  My  father  called  me  then,  and  I  stood  talking  with  him 
in  the  hall,  about  some  errand  he  wished  me  to  do  for  him  in 
Cleve.  It  might  have  been  three  minutes,  or  not  so  much,  we 
were  there.  I  was  ju.st  asking  him  where  I  should  find  the 
man  he  wanted  to  see ;  and  I  remember  he  bade  me  attend, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  in  his  kind  way,  when  a 
scream — sharp  and  piteous,  scarce  like  a  human  scream — rang 
through  the  old  house.  'Twas  Miss  Edith's  voice ;  and  my 
father  and  I  glanced  at  each  other  in  horror,  and  rushed  up 
Btairs." 

"She  was  dead  !"  escaped  from  Mr.  Bruce's  lips;  and  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  sank,  shuddering,  upon 
the  bench. 

"No,  sir.     She  had  had  her  death-stroke;  but  she  wa? 


152  CLEVE    HALL. 

iiol  ti)  (lie  llii'ii.  She  was  lying  on  the  floor  insensible,  Mis* 
IMlKlred  kneeling  by  her ;  quiet — you  wouldn't  have  known 
(here  was  aught  strange,  save  that  her  face  seemed  all  of  a 
sudden  changed  into  stone.  And  the  General  was  there  too; 
standing  up  before  them,  stern  as  on  a  battle-field,  but  his 
eyes  tixed  with  a  horrible  stare  straight  before  him.  They 
did  not  let  me  stay  more  than  a  moment.  Mrs.  Eobinson  was 
called,  and  I  was  sent  off  to  Cleve  for  a  doctor.  I  came  back 
in  less  than  an  hour.  The  General  had  shut  himself  up  in 
his  room;  Miss  Mildred  was  with  her  sister.  No  one  could 
tell  anything  that  had  happened  for  certain  ;  only  that  Captain 
John  and  Goff  had  gone  off  from  Encombe  like  a  shot,  and 
somehow — the  news  was  about,  that  Master  Edward  and  Miss 
Campbell  were  married." 

"  And  that  was  all '/"  exclaimed  Mr.  Brace,  standing  up, 
and  grasping  the  sexton's  arm. 

"  IkuI  enough  'twould  have  been,  sir,  if  it  had  been  all," 
replied  the  sexton  hastily;  "  but  woree  there  must  have  been, 
far  worse  than  that.  ''Tisn't  for  me  to  say,  when  no  one  knows 
for  sure;  but  a  part  of  the  truth  was  abroad  quick  enough. 
IMaster  EdAvard  had  done  something  very  dreadful,  and  was 
disinherited.  What  his  sins  were,  it  had  been  left  for  Captain 
Vivian  and  that  fellow  Goff  to  tell." 

A  groan  was  the  only  reply. 

*'  My  story  will  soon  enough  be  ended  now,  sir,"  continued 
the  sexton.  "  The  beginning  of  troubles  was  the  end  of  the 
family  histoiy.  They  laid  Miss  Edith  on  her  bed,  and  for 
weeks  she  never  rose  up  from  it.  And  day  after  day  the  word 
came  that  she  was  growing  weaker  and  weaker,  and  that  her 
brain  was  wandering;  and  doctors  came  from  London,  and 
nurses;  and  they  talked,  and  ordered,  and  watched,  and  at 
last  they  got  her  round  in  a  way;  and  she  came  down  stairs, 
and  moved  about,  and  went  into  the  garden.  But  it  was  her 
ghost  only,  not  herself.  8he  could  never  be  kept  still,  bul 
was  alwa3^s  dragging  herself  up  and  down  the  shrubbery  walk 
by  the  great  road,  listening  for  a  carriage,  if  it  might  draw 
up  ;  or,  when  she  was  in-doors,  standing  before  a  picture  of 
Master  Edward,  that's  now  in  Miss  Mildred's  room,  or  pacing 
the  gallery  over  the  hall.  But  she  never  mentioned  his  name ; 
no,  not  even  to  Miss  Mildred.  And  at  last,  all  of  a  sudden, 
the  cloud  came  over  her  again,  and  she  gave  way,  as  it  were, 
in  a  moment;  and  once  more  they  took  her  to  her  bed,  and 
never  moved  her  from  it  till  they  carried  her  to  her  grave." 


CLE  YE    HALL.  loo 

Tlie  sextca  paused,  to  dash  away  a  tear.  "  There  was  peace 
for  her/'  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  deep  reverence.  "  She  had 
Hved  an  angel's  life,  and  she  was  ready  for  death.  The  sorrow 
was  for  him  that  had  killed  her." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  continued  : — 

"  'Tis  a  heavy  word  to  say  of  a  father  against  his  child 
and  he  loving  her  as  he  did.  But  'twas  the  General's  way ; 
there  was  no  mercy.  Ple'd  have  given  his  son  to  be  shot.,  if 
it  had  come  in  the  way  of  duty,  and  been  the  first  to  pull  the 
trigger;  and  so,  when  he  thought  himself  called  on  to  give 
him  up,  he  cast  him  off  in  a  moment,  and  fancied  that  others 
could  do  the  same.  But  they  who  said  the  General  was  a  hard 
man,  spoke  of  things  they  didn't  understand.  The  day  that 
Captain  John  brought  the  ill  news,  the  General  was  hole  and 
strong  as  the  strongest  man  of  his  age  in  England.  When  he 
came  out  of  his  room  three  days  afterwards,  to  go  to  church, 
his  hair  was  silveiy  gray,  and  he  had  the  look  and  gait  of  a 
man  of  seventy.  There,  sir,  I've  done  now;  and  I've  tired 
you,  no  doubt ;  and  my  digging  will  be  waiting  for  me.  Will 
it  please  you  to  go  into  the  church  again  ?" 

No  answer  came.  The  question  was  repeated,  and  Mr. 
Bruce  spoke  as  in  a  dream. 

"  The  church,  did  you  say  ?  But  the  mystery — has  it  never 
been  cleared  up  ?" 

*' The  mystery,  sir '/  Oh!  Master  Edward's;  yes,  I  under- 
stand. Cleared  up  I  can't  say  it  has  been,  for  no  one  can  say 
for  certain  what  passed  between  the  General  and  Captain 
Vivian  ;  but,  of  course,  the  marriage  and  the  notion  of  Master 
Edward's  gambling  was  at  the  bottom  of  it ;  and  cause  enough 
for  his  being  disinherited,  according  to  the  General's  principles. 
He  who'd  been  all  his  life  stri^-iug  to  redeem  the  property, 
and  making  it  the  one  thing  he  worked  for — it  was  natural 
enough,  perhaps,  that  he  should  take  fright  at  the  notion  of 
its  falling  into  hands  which  would  scatter  it.  But  what  he 
really  thought  and  felt,  it  isn't  for  such  as  I  to  guess  at ;  and 
indeed  I  don't  fancy  there's  any  one  that  can  tell,  except  may 
bo,  ]\lr.  Lester.  lie  came  to  live  at  Encombe  just  afterwards  ; 
and  he'd  been  Master  Edward's  tutor,  and  often  Staying  at  the 
Hall,  and  had  Avorkcd  hard,  I've  heard,  to  make  the  Gencial 
and  his  son  understand  each  other.  I  believe  the  General  did 
open  his  mind  to  him  at  first,  but  when  Mr.  Lester  didn't  quite 
agi-ee,  he  closed  up  again,  and  lived  for  all  the  world  as  if  shut 
up  in  a  shell.     That  is  to  say,  on  that  subject  he's  shut  up 


154  CLEVE    HALL. 

lint  (III  uilit>rs.  He  gavehiinself  iiiucli  iikivc  U>  tlie  poor  people 
iihniit  tliiit  time,  and  sot  to  Avurk  at  the  cluirch,  and  grow  more 
thnuglitful  for  Miss  Mildred,  and  took  to  potting  and  making 
iniioh  of  licr.  Somehow,  it  seems  to  me,  when  I'm  thinking 
over  it  all  awhiles,  that  he's  been  for  years  like  a  man  who 
knows  he's  very  wrong  in  one  way,  but  won't  for  the  life  of 
him  give  np,  and  so  tries  to  keep  his  conscience  clear  by  being 
good  in  all  others.     IMayn't  it  be  so,  siri:"' 

The  sexton  looked  up  at  his  companion  inquiringly. 

His  answer  was  a  half-crown,  thrust  into  his  hand;  and, 
without  a  word,  Mr.  Bruce  turned  away,  and  in  a  few  seconds 
was  seen  striding  up  the  pathway  to  the  hills,  with  the  speed 
of  a  maniac. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


ELLA  had  left  Clement  behind,  without  a  thought.  IMr. 
Lester  and  Rachel  she  imagined  were  before  her,  and  her 
inclination  was  to  hasten  after  them.  They  were,  however, 
at  a  considerable  distance;  and  she  went  on,  with  ber  usual 
impetuosity,  when  interested,  gaining  ground  upon  them,  but 
heeding  little  the  direction  she  was  taking,  and  without  con- 
sidering how  she  was  to  return.  Once  she  heard  Clement's 
call,  and  answered  it;  but  her  voice  was  weak,  and  the  sound 
did  not  reach  him.  So  she  must  have  proceeded  half  walking, 
and  half  running,  for  more  thau  a  mile;  but  she  was  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer  her  object,  and  her  efforts  would  soon  end. 
The  two  figures  sat  down  for  a  moment  to  rest,  and  a  most 
uncomfortable  misgiving  crossed  Ella's  mind.  The  man  was 
taller  than  Mr.  Lester,  lie  looked  unlike  a  gentleman,  now 
that  she  could  see  him  more  distinctly,  and  the  girl  was  dressed 
differently  from  Rachel.  Ella  could  not  recognise  them  at 
all ;  they  wei-c  not  even  Encombe  people :  probably  they  be- 
longed to  Clove,  and  were  going  thither  by  the  short  way, 
over  the  hills.  That  was  quite  out  of  the  direction  of  the 
Beacon,  and  Clement  would  miss  ber.  She  looked  round  for 
him,  and  called.  There  was  no  answer;  but  the  man  who 
was  sitting  down  heard  her,  and  approached. 

Ella  was  not  frightened,  but  perplexed.     The  hills  were 
very  lonely,  the  paths  in  some  parts  confusing.      One  thing. 


GLEVE    HALL.  155 

Qowevcf,  was  clear, — at  least  she  tliouglit  it  so, — that  Clement 
would  follow  her  in  the  direction  of  the  Beacon ;  and  when 
the  stranger  came  up,  Ella  answered  his  question  as  to  what 
she  wanted,  by  begging  to  be  told  the  nearest  road  to  it. 

"  A  good  way  off  from  the  Beacon  it  is,"  replied  the  man  ; 
"a  mile  at  the  least.  You  aren't  thinking  of  going  up  there 
by  yourself,  Miss  V 

"I  was  going;  I  want  to  meet  my  brother,"  was  Ella's 
reply. 

"  Oh,  your  brother  !  that's  different.  Well,  you  must  keep 
along  under  the  hollow  now,  till  you  get  to  the  pile  of  stones 
yonder,  and  then  take  the  path  to  the  right,  and  that  will 
bring  you  into  Crossdell ;  and  from  thence  you  may  scramble 
up  till  you  get  to  the  foot  of  the  Beacon.  But,  dear  me  !" — 
and  he  looked  at  Ella's  slight  figure  with  a  kind  of  patronizing 
compassion;  "you'll  never  get  up,  anyhow;  and  if  you  do, 
you'll  never  find  your  way  down  again;  or  you'll  get  upon  the 
Croome ;  and  there'll  be  a  business  !" 

''The  Croome!"  repeated  Ella;  ''that  is  where  the  cliff 
falls  away  so,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  the  steep  side  of  the  Beacon,  away  to  the  east," 
was  the  answer.  "  Folks  that  don't  know  much  about  it  are 
apt  to  set  foot  upon  the  Croome,  taking  it  all  for  firm  ground; 
and  then,  ten  to  one,  if  they  don't  go  down  and  down,  till 
they'd  give  half  they're  worth  to  stop.  However,  I  dare  say 
your  brother  knows  all  about  that,  and  he  won't  take  you  the 
dangerous  side." 

A  little  fear  there  was  in  Ella's  mind,  but  with  it  a  good 
deal  of  excitement.  Yet  she  could  not  at  once  decide  whe- 
ther to  advance  or  go  back.  She  asked  how  far  it  was  from 
the  point  she  had  now  reached  to  Eucombe  :  about  a  mile  and 
a  half.  That  really  seemed  nothing ;  and  to  have  had  a  tire- 
some walk  all  by  herself,  for  nothing — it  would  be  too  absurd  ' 
And  then  she  should  certainly  miss  Clement,  and  he  would 
find  his  way  to  the  Beacon,  and  she  shoidd  be  outdone.  In 
Ella's  chivali-ous  moments,  when  she  was  mistress  over  her 
natural  indolence,  there  was  nothing  she  disliked  more  than 
being  beaten  in  anything,  even  in  a  walk;  and  moreover  she 
had  an  innate  love  of  adventure,  nearly  allied  to  her  poetical 
tastes,  all  of  which  urged  her  to  the  side  of  boldness.  With- 
out acknowledging  to  her  new  acquaintance  the  fact  of  having 
lost  Clement,  lest  he  should  dissuade  her  from  her  intention, 
the  thanked  him,  wished  him  gobd-b'ye,  and  proceeded  on  her 


156  CLKVE    HALL. 

upward  w.iy,  with  a  springing  step  and  an  eager  spirit,  and 
h.id  reached  the  other  extremity  of  the  hollow,  leforo  he  had 
disappeared  along  the  downward  path  which  led  to  the  town 
of  Cleve. 

Her  heart  did  sink  a  little  when  she  looked  up  and  saw  tlie 
height  still  above  her,  the  summit  of  the  Beacon  being  even 
then  not  visible.  But  it  required  only  an  effort;  she  was 
Ktrong,  and  there  was  quite  sufficient  time,  and  Clement  nn'ght 
miss  her  if  she  turned  back ;  and  Ella,  who  would  have  lounged 
for  hours  in  an  easy  chair,  dreaming  over  poctiy,  and  thinking 
the  smallest  exertion  too  great,  now,  once  roused,  was  willing 
to  risk  any  amount  of  fatigue,  or  even  danger,  rather  than 
fail  in  her  purpose. 

She  began  the  ascent ;  at  first  an  easy  one,  for  the  sheep- 
track  was  her  guide,  and  offered  a  sure  footing;  but  after 
some  distance  it  ceased,  and  she  was  obliged  to  make  her  way 
as  she  could  over  the  slippery  turf.  The  Beacon  point  was 
before  her,  however,  then,  and  this  gave  her  confidence  and 
energy.  Yet  she  did  not  trust  herself  to  look  round,  lest  she 
should  turn  giddy;  for  the  hill  was  becoming  more  and  more 
precipitous,  and  from  not  knowing  the  right  direction  to  take, 
]u\\a  had  chosen  the  steepest  site  that  was  accessible.  At  last, 
however,  having  reached  a  little  hollow,  where  she  could  find 
a  firm  footing,  she  turned,  and  sat  down  to  rest.  The  view 
beneath  her  was  most  lovely,  commanding  the  slope  of  the 
hills,  and  the  Encombe  ravine,  with  the  Cleve  woods,  and  the 
t(jwn  of  Cleve  in  the  distance ;  and  beyond  a  wide  expanse 
of  the  sea,  changing  at  every  instant,  now  glittering  with 
islands  of  light,  now  dark  with  deep  purple  shadows,  as  the 
sun  escaped  from,  or  was  hidden  beneath,  the  heavy  clouds 
which  were  crossing  the  sky.  Perfectly  enjoyable  it  would 
have  been,  if  only  she  had  been  sitting  on  the  summit  of  the 
Beacon,  with  Clement  by  her  side.  As  it  was,  the  exquisite 
beauty,  added  to  the  comfort  of  rest,  induced  her  to  linger 
minute  after  minute;  and  it  was  not  till  a  sensation  of  cold 
and  dampness  stole  over  her,  that  she  thought  of  proceeding. 

A  slight  mist  rested  on  the  summit;  that  was  provoking, 
it  would  prevent  her  seeing  the  view  to  perfection.  But  it 
might  pass  away;  at  any  rate,  she  felt  it  would  be  wise  to 
hasten,  lest  it  should  increase.  Once  more  she  was  ascending, 
rather  more  cautiously;  for  she  was  no  longer  stepping  upon 
turf,  but  iipon  loose  shingles  and  rough  stones,  which  hurt 
her  feet.     It  crossed  her  mind  whether  she  should  20  back, 


CLEVE    HA^L.  157 

for  the  mist  was  fbickening  very  rapidly.  But  to  be  so  near 
the  top,  and  not  to  reach  it !  It  was  out  of  the  question ;  it 
would  be  ignoble;  and,  after  all,  what  harm  could  happen  to 
her?  She  had  but  to  step  carefully;  and  once  at  the  top, 
her  descent  would  be  rapid-  and  easy,  and  she  should  soon 
escape  from  the  mist,  which  was  always  thicker  on  the  hills 
than  in  the  valleys.  Enterprising,  Ella  was,  certainly;  hers 
might  have  been  the  spirit  of  a  crusader,  could  it  always  have 
felt  the  same  stimulus.  A  steep,  high  bank,  almost  a  cliff, 
was  before  her ;  the  damp,  heavy  mist  was  gathering  around 
her ;  she  was  weary  and  breathless ;  sharp  flints  had  torn  her 
boots,  and  one  had  wounded  her  foot  so  as  to  make  it  painful 
for  her  to  walk ;  but  she  would  not  yield.  One  more  great 
effort :  scrambling,  slipping  back,  clinging  to  a  stone  which 
gave  way,  seizing  upon  the  stem  of  a  juniper-bush,  and  finding 
a  footing  for  a  moment,  and  then  grasping  the  edge  of  the 
bank,  and  dragging  herself  up  almost  in  despair,  and  Ella 
had  achieved  her  object,  and  stood  upon  the  narrow  platforni 
of  the  highest  hill,  and  touched  the  pile  of  stones  which 
formed  the  Beacon. 

She  was  very  triumphant — very  excited.  The  toil  was  a 
hundred-fold  repaid  by  success ;  so  she  felt,  for  the  first  minute. 
The  second,  a  chill  came  over  her,  mental  as  well  as  physical ; 
but  the  latter  was  predominant.  A  cold  blast  was  sweeping 
over  the  hills ;  and  sadly  and  ominously  it  moaned  thi-ough  the 
hollows  below  her.  View  there  was  none ;  the  mist  covered  the 
country  like  a  garment,  and,  gathering  around  Ella,  crept,  as 
it  seemed,  into  her  frame,  numbing  her  fingers,  and  bringing 
ithat  indescribable  sense  of  blind  dreariness  which  makes  one 
fancy,  for  the  moment,  that  warmth  and  light  have  disappeared 
from  the  earth  for  ever. 

Of  course  there  was  but  one  thought  in  Ella's  mind — 
descent  as  quick  as  possible.  She  again  called  Clement, 
though  with  little  expectation  of  being  heard  ;  and,  receiving 
no  answer,  set  herself  to  her  task.  The  cliff  was  her  first 
ilifficulty;  she  could  not  trust  it  in  going  down,  as  she  had  in 
■i~cending,  so  she  felt  her  way  cautiously  along  the  edge  of  the 
])latforni,  till  she  reached  a  less  precipitous  bank,  and,  sliding 
down  without  difficulty,  found  herself  standing  on  what  seemed 
a  beaten  track.  This  must,  of  course,  she  thought,  bo  the 
right  path,  which  she  had  missed  through  ignorance;  and  she 
went  on  boldly  and  cheerfully,  congratulating  herself  on  bet 
success.     Y(!t  it  was  rather  bewildering,  to  be  wandering  on 


l.')S  CLEVE    HALL. 

ill  tLis  way,  without  being  able  to  soe  more  than  a  few  yards 
before  her;  ami  once,  it  crossed  Ella's  mind,  that  the  tracn 
was  leading  her  rather  away  from  the  direction  she  had  takek 
in  ascending.  Very  far  away,  however,  it  could  not  be,  for  she 
was  quite  sure  that  she  was  going  towards  Encombe;  and 
every  now  and  then  she  stopped  and  called  Clement,  again 
hoping  that  he  might  be  near,  and  join  her. 

The  path  which  Ella  had  entered  upon  was  broad  at  first, 
sloping  along  the  side  of  the  hill ;  then  it  grew  narrower  and 
steeper,  and  occasionally  it  ceased  altogether  for  a  few  paces; 
but  a  path  there  certainly  was,  so  that  she  did  not  feel  any 
misgivings.  At  length,  however,  it  became  very  perplexing ; 
there  seemed  to  be  two  tracks,  one  to  the  right,  broad,  but 
exceedingly  precipitous,  almost  indeed  perpendicular,  leading, 
as  she  supposed,  towards  Cleve ;  the  other  very  narrow,  but 
more  easy,  carried  round  the  hill,  and  therefore- leading  away 
from  Encombe.  Either  seemed  an  evil,  and  Ella  paused  to 
consider,  and  for  the  first  time  felt  sufficiently  uncomfortable 
heartily  to  repent  her  expedition.  To  descend  by  any  means 
was  still  the  only  thing  to  be  done,  for  there  was  no  time  to  be 
lost.  It  was  growing  late,  and  the  mist  was  thickening  inlo 
rain.  And  after  a  moment's  consideration  she  chose  the 
narrow  path,  as  leading,  she  believed,  more  directly  to  Encombe. 

It  Avas  tolerably  level,  and  therefore  easy  at  first ;  and  Ella 
congratulated  herself  upon  this,  and  went  on  hopefully,  yet 
not  very  quickly.  It  was  not  quite  as  firm  as  that  which  she 
had  left ;  the  soil  was  loos(frand  the  stones  rolled  away  under 
her  feet.  This  did  not  signify,  as  long  as  the  slope  was 
gradual ;  but  it  became  steeper, — the  path  was  scarcely  to  be 
called  one.  Ella  was  obliged  to  throw  herself,  in  a  manner, 
from  one  projection  to  another:  yet  it  was  still  descent,  and 
descent  was  her  object.  She  was  forced  to  move  on ;  the  stones 
gave  way  as  she  touched  them ;  and  there  were  no  large  ones 
to  grasp.  It  became  not  walking,  or  jumping  from  point  to 
point,  but  one  perpetual  slide,  slide  ;  above,  below,  around  her 
— all  was  sliding;  and  when  she  tried  t-)  stop,  the  very  eff"ort 
to  sustain  herself  gave  an  impetus  to  the  stones  on  which  she 
rested ;  and  down  they  went,  rolling  on  and  on,  and  making 
:dl  they  touched  roll  with  them,  till  the  rush  was  as  the  crash 
of  pebbles  on  a  beach ;  and  at  length — was  it  the  splash  of 
water  which  reached  Ella's  ear  ? 

The  black  tarn  Avas  beneath  her.  She  was  clinging  to  the 
Bide  of  the  Croomc. 


CLEVE    HALL.  159 

The  ciy  which  echoed  through  the  hills  reached  the  ears 
of  3Ir.  Bruce  as  he  wandered  beneath  the  Beacon,  and  was 
heard  bj  Rachel  Lester  as  she  stood  at  the  head  of  Greystone 
Gorge,  and  startled  Bonald  in  his  lonely  wretchedness ; — it 
was  the  cry  of  extremity  of  peril.  To  go  back  was  impossible ; 
the  very  effort  to  grasp  the  cliff  would  but  precipitate  Ella  into 
the  lake.  To  go  forward  was  equ.ally  impossible  ;  the  end  might 
approach  more  slowly,  but  it  would  not  be  the  less  certain. 
To  stand  motionless  upon  the  spot  where  for  the  moment  she 
had  found  her  footing,  was  the  only  safety ;  and  this  security 
was  but  the  verge  of  despair ;  for  even  the  sound  of  Ella's 
voice,  as  in  her  agony  she  called  Clement,  Clement,  seemed  to 
precipitate  the  rush  of  the  restless,  shivering  cliff,  and  increase 
the  perpetual  quick  plash,  the  knell  of  the  dark  waters,  as  they 
closed  over  the  stones  which  sank  into  their  depth. 

Years  were  gathered  into  those  moments, — the  years  of 
Ella's  life ;  the  tale  of  her  wilfulness,  her  folly,  her  pride,  her 
indolence — not  passing  before  her  in  detail,  but  all  concentrated 
into  one  feeling  of  despair. 

_Again,  one  last  effort !  But  Ella's  voice  was  feeble  with 
horror,  and  it  was  but  the  wailing  wind  which  took  up  the 
lingering  notes,  and  prolonged  the  ineffectual  cry.  Yet  a 
change  came.  A  gleam  of  sunshine  was  struggling  amidst  the 
vapor  that  floated  over  the  tarn.  A  few  moments  more,  and 
the  mist  rolled  away ;  whilst  heavy  wreaths  gathered  together 
upon  the  summit  of  the  hill,  leaving  clear  below  a  narrow  sheet 
nf  water,  unrufiled  save  by  the  falling  stones,  dark  with  almost 
unfathomable  depth,  and  coldly  throwing  back  the  lines  of 
light  which  crossed  its  bosom,  as  if  too  conscious  of  the  dread 
secrets  which  it  hid  to  permit  them  to  penetrate  its  surface. 

It  was  but  a  little  distance  across  from  the  spot  where  Ella 
stood.  She  could  see  a  small  hovel  on  the  opposite  bank, 
sometimes  used  for  shelter  by  shepherds,  and  distinguish  the 
rocks  scattered  along  the  margin  of  the  tarn,  and  the  sheep 
grazing  upon  the  scanty  foliage.  She  could  even  look  beyond, 
and  trace  the  path  which  would  lead  her  to  the  village ;  and 
very  far  away  she  fancied  that  she  could  perceive  the  tower 
of  Encombe  church,  though  it  was  very  indistinct.  Life, 
safety,  happiness,  were  within  her  sight,  almost  within  her 
grasp ;  but  so  also  were  the  crumbling  rocks,  and  the  waters 
of  the  dark  tarn,  and  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

There  was  a  sound  on  the  lake;  not  the  falling  of  stones; 
it  was  a  steadier,  softer,  more  even  plash.     It  Avas  behind  her, 


IGO  CLEVE    UALL. 

and  she  dared  not  look  round ;  the  pressure  of  her  foot  ini,t;hl 
be  death.  She  called  again,  and  a  voice  sounded  from  below, 
and  a  little  boat  with  a  man  in  it  glided  into  sight.  Ella 
stretched  out  one  hand  ;  her  impulse  was  to  throw  herself  into 
the  water.     A  hasty  gesture  warned  her  to  pause. 

"  Be  still :  if  you  value  your  life,  neither  move  nor  speak. 
There  is  a  rope  iu  the  boat ;  I  will  throw  it  to  you,"  shouted 
3Ir.  Bruce  from  below ;  and  the  boat  glided  away  again  out 
of  sight,  and  she  was  left  to  loneliness,  and  the  ceaseless  plash 
of  the  falling  stones. 

Minutes  passed  away;  her  strength  was  failing;  the  posi- 
tion in  which  she  stood  was  becoming  unbearable;  and  there 
were  no  signs  of  the  promised  help.  She  could  not  have  been 
left ;  it  was  madness  to  think  so ;  yet  Ella's  mind  was  in  that 
state  in  which  reason  has  lost  its  power ;  and  the  dreams  of  a 
maniac  arc  not  more  wild  than  the  suggestions  and  misgivings 
which  flashed  across  her,  checked  only  by  the  strong  instinct 
of  self-preservation. 

But  a  voice  came  at  last  from  above,  a  man's  voice.  "Are 
you  there  ?"  was  shouted ;  and  Ella's  answering  scream  was 
sharper  than  the  cry  of  a  dying  animal.  A  pause  followe'd ; 
two  persons  seemed  to  be  holding  a  consultation.  Ella  could 
hear  their  murmurs.  The  delay  was  agony ;  in  another  mi- 
nute her  power  of  endurance  would  be  gone.  They  called 
again,  for  they  could  not  see  her,  and  could  only  be  directed 
by  the  voice  to  the  spot  which  she  had  reached.  Then  she 
heard,  in  louder  tones,  a  debate  which  seemed  almost  angry  iu 
its  eagerness.  '' Throw  the  rope."  "No;  it  will  not  reach 
her,  and  she  will  go  down."  "  If  we  could  but  see  her !" 
Another  shout  and  another  answer.  "  Fasten  the  rope  round 
me  first."  It  was  Mr.  Bruce  who  spoke.  The  suggestion 
seemed  to  be  approved,  for  there  was  a  momentary  silence. 
Then  came  the  noise  of  the  stones  disturbed  from  their  resting- 
pjace,  and  rushing  faster,  faster,  falling  behind  and  around 
Ella.  But  Mr.  Bruce  was  drawing  near;  she  could  see  him; 
he  was  moving  very  cautiovisly,  and,  as  it  appeared,  with  some 
instinct  or  foreknowledge,  which  taught  him  where  to  place 
hifi  foot  on  the  firmest  spot.  The  rope  also  held  by  his  com- 
panion secured  him ;  but  even  with  that  aid  he  dared  not  ap- 
proach very  close.  The  movement  of  the  stones  might  loosen 
those  on  which  Ella  was  standing.  "Now,  catch  it."  He 
flung  the  end  of  the  rope  towards  her.     She  moved,  - -caught 


CLEVE    HALL.  IGl 

It  for  an  instant, — lost  it  again, — felt  herself  sliding, — once 
more  caught  it,  and  clung  to  it,  and  was  dragged  upwards. 

"  Fasten  it  round  jour  waist,"  shouted  Ronald  from  above. 

Impossible  !  Ella's  sti-ength  was  giving  way.  The  rope 
was  large ;  she  could  not  twist  it.  She  felt  her  hold  lessen- 
ing, yet  despair  was  life.  One  instant  more,  and  she  was 
within  reach  of  Mr.  Bruce's  arm,  supported  by  him  with  one 
hand,  whilst  he  threw  the  rope  around  her  with  the  other; 
and  at  that  moment  she  fainted  away. 

It  must  have  been  almost  a  superhuman  strength  which 
upheld  her ;  but  Ronald  Vivian  stood  above,  with  his  giant 
power,  his  indomitable  resolution ;  and  another — weak  indeed, 
comparatively,  in  body,  but  urged  by  the  overwhelming  im- 
pulse of  a  father's  love — was  straining  every  nerve  for  her 
preservation ;  and  when  at  length  she  was  laid  on  the  firm 
ground,  Edward  Vivian  bent  over  his  daughter,  and  forgetting 
eveiy  necessity  for  concealment,  exclaimed,  "  My  Ella,  my 
precious  child  !     Thank  God  she  is  safe  I" 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THAT  night  Mr.  Vivian  sat  in  a  large,  low,  old-fashioned 
room  at  the  jManor  Farm,  his  chair  drawn  in  front  of  the 
fire,  which  3Irs.  Robinson  had  insisted  upon  lighting  when 
he  returned,  cold,  damp,  and  far  from  well,  after  an  expedi- 
tion over  the  hills,  which  had  been  longer,  he  said,  than  he 
had  intended.  With  him  sat  Mr.  Lester,  his  grave  counte- 
nance wearing  a  look  of  disquieting  thought,  as,  leaning  his 
elbow  upon  the  table,  he  gazed  fixedly  before  him.  Tea  was 
just  over;  it  had  been  but  a  scanty  meal;  though  Mrs.  Ro- 
binson, in  her  hospitality  and  afi"ection,  had  provided  lai'gely 
fur  the  weary  wanderer,  and  urged  upon  Mr.  Lester  the  duty 
A'  making  him  take  care  of  himself.  Mr.  Vivian  was  not  to 
be  persuaded ;  his  cup  of  tea  had  been  swallowed  hastily,  aiul 
Bcarccly  anything  else  on  the  table  was  touched  :  a  questiuu 
was  pending,  which  was  food  sufficient  for  the  mind,  and,  for 
the  moment;  for  the  body  also — ^Vh^t  is  to  be  done  next  ? 


]G2  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  I  can  trust  Ronald  implicitly,"  was  Mr.  Lester's  obser- 
vation. 

"  Yet  3'ou  were  vexed  wlioii  I  told  you  I  had  betrayed  my- 
self." 

"  Voxeil  for  your  own  want  of  caution.  Are  you  never  to 
learn  ])rudence,  Vivian  '{" 

"  ^Vhcn  my  child  had  just  been  saved  from  death  !"  he  ex- 
claimed.    "  Lester,  you  will  one  day  drive  me  to  hate  you." 

"  A  man  who  puts  himself  in  a  position  where  self-restraint 
is  necessary,  ought  first  to  be  certain  that  he  can  practise  it," 
replied  Mr.  Lester.  "But  it  is  useless  to  waste  time  in  lec- 
tures which  will  not  be  listened  to." 

"  Spare  nic  at  least  till  you  have  had  experience,"  was  the 
answer.  "  Live  for  eighteen  years  in  a  foreign  land,  sepa- 
rated from  your  children,  bound  to  work  which  you  hate,  your 
constitution  worn  by  a  horrible  climate,  and  then  talk  to  uie 
of  prudence,  if  you  can." 

"  31ost  true,  my  dear  Vivian  ;  none  can  feel  it  more  strongly 
than  myself.  But  a  few  months'  more  delay; — and  the  claims 
of  the  children,  your  sister's  influence,  my  own  inquiries  as  to 
the  past,  might  have  opened  a  door  for  your  return,  honorably 
and  openly." 

"Never,  never;  in  that  opinion  at  least  we  cannot  bo 
agreed ;  and  remember  that  my  knowledge  of  my  father  is 
more  intimate  than  yours." 

"  I  am  not  saying  there  would  be  hope  if  you  took  him  by 
surprise.  All  I  contend  for  is,  that,  with  patience  and  pru- 
dence, we  might  at  least  have  worked  upon  him." 

Mr.  Vivian  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  and  his  tone  was 
irritable,  as  he  said : — "  It  is  no  good  to  discuss  what  might 
have  been.  I  am  here; — I  am  known  to  be  here.  Now  for 
the  next  step." 

"  To  leave  the  neighborhood  before  your  secret  has  spread 
further,  would  be  my  advice,"  replied  Mr.  Lester. 

"  And  live  the  same  life  that  I  have  been  living  for  so 
many  years, — lonely,  hopeless,  and  with  the  aggravation  of  be- 
ng  Avithin  reach  of  my  children,  and  yet  unable  to  approach 
them." 

"  So  it  must  be  till  we  have  discovered  the  full  extent  of 
your  cousin's  villany." 

"  Pshaw  !  Forgive  mc,  Lester  ;  you  rest  upon  that  point 
as  if  it  would  at  once  change  the  whole  tone  of  ray  father's 
mind.    Let  John  Vivian  be  what  he  may,  let  him  have  injured 


CLEVE    HALL.  103 

and  calumuiated  me  as  tc  may,  I  tell  you  there  are  sins  enongh 
at  my  own  dooi",  for  wliicli  I  alone  am  answerable,  whicli,  in 
my  reasonable  moments,  must,  I  feel,  sbut  up  every  avenue  to 
reconciliation." 

Mr.  Lester  looked  very  pained. 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,"  continued  Mr.  Vivian. 
"  Why,  if  I  had  no  hope,  should  I  have  returned  to  England'/ 
That  is  the  question  of  a  man  reasoning  upon  feelings  which  he  is 
too  fortunate  to  understand.  Say,  I  had  no  hope, — it  is  true  ; 
yet  can  you  not  imagine  it  possible  to  act  without  it,  when  the 
object  is  restoration  to  a  father's  aifection?  Let  him  do  with 
my  inheritance  as  he  will ;  if  he  will  see  and  bless  me,  1 
shall  die  happy."  Mr.  Vivian's  voice  faltered,  but  he  reco- 
vered himself,  and  added  :  ''  Besides,  if  I  have  no  hope  for 
myself,  I  have  for  my  children." 

"  And  so  had  I,"  replied  Mr.  Lester. 

"Yes;  and  your  hope  was  fed  by  every  day  events,  by  in- 
t-ercourse  with  Mildred ;  and  it  was  not  the  hope  of  one  whose 
all  lay  trembling  in  the  balance ;  whilst  mine — Lester,  death 
would  have  been  preferable  to  the  life  I  was  leading ;  and  if 
the  step  I  have  taken  should  bring  me  to  it,  I  could  scarcely 
repent  that  I  had  yielded." 

^'  Who  is  to  say  that  it  will  not  bring  you  to  it  ?"  replied  'Mi: 
Lester,  earnestly.    "  You  have  to  deal  with  a  desperate  man." 

"  We  have  been  pitted  against  each  other  before  this," 
was  the  reply.      ''  Let  him  do  his  worst ;  I  don't  fear  him." 

''  There  would  be  comparatively  little  cause  to  fear,  if  every 
thing  were  open,"  replied  Mr.  Lester.  "  If  you  had  appeared 
at  Encombe  in  your  own  character,  John  Vivian  would  have 
been  powei'less,  for  all  eyes  would  have  been  upon  him.  Now. 
on  the  contrary,  no  one  notices  either  him  or  you,  and  he  can 
carry  on  his  machinations  unperceived." 

"  You  speak  as  if  it  was  my  own  choice  which  brought  me 
to  Encombe,"  replied  Mr.  Vivian.  "  But  for  the  wreck,  i 
should  never  have  ventured  to  visit  the  place  without  your 
sanction." 

"  We  will  waive  the  point  of  your  returning  to  England  at 
all,"  replied  Mr.  Lester;  *' it  is  only  a  vexatious  one.  But 
■;rhcn  you  were  here,  you  must  acknowledge  that  you  insisted 
apon  remaining.  You  disbelieved  me  when  I  said  that  it  was 
impossible  to  keep  your  secret." 

"  Yet  you  declare  I  am  safe,  and  that  Ronald  Vivian  is  to 
be  trusted." 


164  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  As  suroly  as  I  am  to  be  trustoil  myself ;  but  you  forizet, 
my  (loar  V^ivian,  the  possibility  of  exciting  suspicion  in  your 
i-ousin  or  liis  wrctche(l  ally,  Coff." 

''  I  trust  to  Mrs.  llobinson  for  that;  she  knows  everything 
that  goes  on,  and  has  ears  and  eyes  iu  all  parts  of  the  village. 
And  as  to  being  known,  remember  that  even  she  did  not  re- 
cognise me.  Eighteen  years  iu  a  West  Indian  climate  Avith 
two  attacks  of  yellow  fever  to  boot — there  can  be  no  safer  dis- 
guise than  such  a  change  ;  even  if  I  had  not  been  most  care- 
ful as  to  concealment  in  other  ways." 

''  Still,  look  at  the  possibility  ;  it  must  always  be  wise  to 
fear  the  worst." 

"  Well,  then  ;  my  hopeful  cousin  knows  mc,  and  publishes 
the  news,  and  what  is  to  follow  ?" 

''  That  is  the  point;  he  will  not  publish  it." 

"  But,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  suppose  he  docs  ?  My 
father  will  hear  of  it;  and  how  will  he  take  it  i'" 

"  So  as  to  ruin  every  prospect,  both  for  you  and  for  the 
children,"  exclaimed  l^lr.  Lester.  "  Eighteen  years  have 
done  their  work  upon  him,  as  they  must  upon  all,  in  sharpen- 
ing and  hardening  the  edges  of  character.  The  principle  upon 
which  he  first  acted  was  what  he  believed  to  be  a  right  one ; 
but  he  carried  it  out  withoxit  check  or  balance  from  other  prin- 
ciples, and  now  it  has  become  prejudice.  If  at  this  moment 
you  were  to  appear  before  him,  he  would  turn  from  you  as 
from  a  stranger." 

Mr.  Vivian  shuddered,  and  his  voice  sounded  faint  and 
hollow,  as  he  said  :  "  IMy  father  !  is  it  possible  '/" 

"  Quite  possible.  There  is  nothing  iu  this  world  so  stern 
as  a  petrified  affection." 

'J.  Yet  you  would  have  given  me  hope  if  I  had  remained  iu 
Jamaica?" 

"  Yes,  hope  in  your  father's  justice ;  he  is  still  open  to 
that,  and  if  we  weaken  him  upon  one  point,  we  weaken  him 
upon  all.  If  we  could  place  before  him  the  proofs  of  your 
cousin's  treacheiy,  for  treacherous  I  have  not  the  smallest 
doubt  he  was ;  if  we  could  show  him  that  you  were  not  guilty 
to  the  extent  which  he  believes,  his  strong  sense  of  honor 
would  be  touched,  and  he  would  feel  himself  bound  to  redeem 
the  injury  he  has  done  you.  But  there  has,  as  yet,  been  no 
time  for  this.  The  letter  which  you  wrote  in  answer  to  my 
first  communication  of  our  suspicions,  has  only  just  reached 
us;  and  we  must  deal  Avith  your  father  cautiously,  even  foe 


CLEVE    HALL.  16-5 

the  sake  of  his  a2;e.  Once,  however,  as  I  said,  touch  his  sense 
(tf  justice,  and  I  should  have  hope.  Mildred  and  I  would 
place  your  character  in  its  true  lit;ht.  We  would  make  him 
feel  how  uoblj  you  have  borne  your  exile ;  how  devotedly  you 
have  labored  for  j^our  children." 

Mr.  Vivian  interrupted  him  impatiently  : — "  I  tell  you, 
Lester,  as  I  have  told  you  before,  you  are  mistaken.  The 
amount  of  my  offence  is  not  the  question.  When  I  lost  five 
pounds  at  the  gaming-table,  I  sinned  in  my  father's  eyes  as 
if  I  had  lost  five  thousand.  When  I  married  without  his 
consent,  I  grieved  him  as  if  I  had  chosen  my  wife  from  the 
very  dregs  of  the  people." 

"  True,  in  a  certain  sense;  but  there  is  one  thing  which  you 
forget.  When  a  man  sins  against  the  virtue  which  he  holds 
most  dear,  his  repentance  is  keen  in  proportion  to  the  estima- 
tion with  which  he  regards  it.  Justice  has  been  your  father's 
idol.  If  we  can  show  him  that  he  has  been  unjust,  I  can 
scarcely  doubt  that,  iu  his  eagerness  to  atone  for  the  wrong- 
he  has  done,  he  may  be  induced  to  overlook  what,  under  other 
circumstances,  he  would  have  considered  unpardonable." 

Mr.  Vivian  considered  for  a  few  moments — then  he  said  : 
— "  Perhajjs  you  are  right.  I  have  known  him  so  influenced 
iu  former  days.     But  how  to  obtain  the  proofs  of  injustice  V 

*'  There,  of  course,  lies  the  difficulty.  The  lapse  of  time 
is  one  very  great  obstacle.  If  I  had  known,  years  ago,  what 
I  know  now,  I  should  have  had  every  hope  of  bringing  the 
matter  to  a  speedy  conclusion ;  but,  as  you  are  aware,  it  was 
not  till  I  became  acquainted  with  your  sister-in-law,  and  learnt 
from  her  the  particulars  of  what  took  place  at  the  time  of  your 
marriage,  that  I  had  any  idea  of  the  falsity  of  your  cousin's 
statements.  Unquestionably  he  swindled  your  father  out  of  a 
large  sum  on  that  occasion.  General  Vivian  once  told  nie  that 
he  paid  him  more  than  five  thousand  pounds,  on  a  solemn  con- 
dition that  he  was  never  to  be  applied  to  for  a  similar  sacrifice 
again.  That  was  the  result  of  his  feelings  of  honor,  added  to 
his  hasty  pride.  If  he  had  but  condescended  to  make  inquiry 
of  you,  instead  of  receiving  John  Vivian's  statements,  he 
would  have  known  that  the  utmost  extent  of  your  debts  was 
not " 

"  One  thousand ; — a  much  larger  sum,  I  confess,  than  I 
had  any  right  to  risk ;  or,  as  you  will  say,  and  as  I  say  now, 
1  had  no  right  to  risk  a  penny.     But  on  what  prctenco  John 


166  CLEVE    HALL. 

Vivian  could  have  extracted  five  thousand  from  my  father,  i.« 
utterly  bo3-ond  my  comprehension." 

"Then,  as  to  the  letters,"  continued  Mr.  Lcstci",  ''none 
reached  Cleve,  thoua;h  you  say  you  wrote  constantly.  He 
must  have  stopped  them  for  his  own  foul  purposes.  There  is 
uo  want  of  charity,  I  trust,  in  thinking  so." 

"  Whatever  may  have  been  my  offence  against  liim,  he  has 
had  his  revenge/'  said  Mr.  Vivian;  and  a  heavy  sigh  escaped 
him. 

"  No,  Vivian,  he  has  not  had  his  revenge,  wliilst  a  chance 
remains  of  seeing  either  you  or  your  boy  restored  to  the  inhe- 
ritance you  have  lost.  The  injury  he  has  already  done  has 
quickened  and  goaded  his  revenge,  because  it  has  jtlaeed  him- 
self in  danger.  The  man  is  twice  your  enemy  whoso  hatred 
has  led  him  to  degradation." 

"  Twice  my  enemy,  indeed  !"  repeated  Mr.  Vivian ;  ''  first 
to  myself;  but,  oh !  Lester,  far  more  terribly,  it  may  be,  to 
my  boy." 

Mr.  Lester's  l^ice  showed  some  painful  thought ;  perhaps 
it  crossed  his  mind  that  the  sins  of  parents  are  punished  in 
the  faults  of  their  children.  But  he  shook  off  the  feeling, 
whatever  it  was,  and  answered,  "  Our  trust  for  Clement  must 
be  in  a  Higher  Power  than  our  own." 

"  And  you  don't  think  it  would  influence  him  for  good  to 
know  that  I  was  at  hand." 

"  It  might  do  so,  if  the  secret  could  be  made  known  with- 
out risk.  But  we  come  back  always  to  the  same  point ;  not 
so  much  what  we  are  to  do,  as  when.  It  is  the  gordian  knot 
of  many  difficulties  in  life  besides  ours." 

"  Then  cut  it !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vivian,  impetuously. 

"  That  is  the  principle  upon  which  you  have  acted  through 
life,  my  dear  Vivian  ;  and  what  has  been  the  result  ?" 

The  look  of  self-reproaching  anguish  which  followed  the 
question,  almost  made  Mr.  Lester  repent  that  he  had  put  it. 
Yet  it  had  done  its  work. 

"Yes,  you  arc  right;  impatience  has  been  my  ruin  !"  and 
Edward  Vivian's  head  was  bowed  upon  his  hands,  as  if  even, 
to  his  truest  friend,  he  dared  not  show  the  extent  of  his  re- 
morse. 

Mr.  Lester  spoke  more  gently.  "There  is  no  ruin,  Vivian, 
while  there  is  hope ;  and  no  one  but  yourself  need  destroy 
your  hope.  You  have  made,  I  fear,  a  false  step ;  but  it  is  not 
UTctrievable.     Leave   this   place;   hide  yourself  in   London, 


CLEVE    HALL.  167 

and  suffer  your  sister,  Bertha  Campbell,  and  uiyself,  to  work 
out  our  own  plans. '  You  may  safely  triist  us  to  use  our  utmost 
efforts;  and  from  time  to  time  you  will  hear  of  our  proceed- 
ings, whilst  you  will  have  the  comfort  of  feeling  yourself  within 
reach  of  your  children.  Content  yourself  with  this  life  for 
awhile.  You  say  that  you  can  remain  in  England  for  a  year. 
We  will  not  look  forward  beyond  ;  before  it  is  over,  I  trust — 
nay,  more,  I  sincerely  believe — that  wc  shall  once  more  see 
you  restored  to  Cleve." 

''And  go  from  Encombe  without  seeing  Mildred?"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Vivian. 

"  It  may  be  necessary.  I  will  not,  at  this  moment,  abso- 
lutely say  that  it  is.  But  if  John  Vivian's  suspicions  are 
aroused,  you  have  not  a  day  to  lose :  either  he  will  quit  the 
place  himself,  and  so  we  shall  lose  all  chance  of  substantiating 

our  charges  against  him ;  or you  will  laugh  at  my  fears ; 

but  a  desperate  man  will  do  desperate  deeds." 

Mr.  Vivian  considered  for  a  few  seconds :  "  I  cannot  see 
the  necessity.  Let  me  be  brave,  Lester ;  let  me  go  at  once 
to  my  father :  severe,  prejudiced  though  he  is,  I  am  still  his 
son.  Let  me  say  to  him  that  John  Vivian  deceived  him  :  you 
yourself  own  that  there  would  be  hope  then  in  his  justice." 

"  But  the  pi'oofs  of  the  deceit,  where  are  they  ?" 

''  My  own  word  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vivian,  haughtily. 

"  The  word  of  one  man  against  another,"  was  Mr.  Lester's 
fjuiet  reply. 

''John  Vivian's  word  against  mine  ! — Lester,  you  dare  not 
say  that  my  father  would  take  it." 

"  I  say  that  he  would  pride  himself  upon  weighing  both 
equally  in  the  balance ;  and  the  stronger  was  the  leaning 
towards  you,  the  more  hope  there  would  be  for  your  enemy. 
Yet  I  own  it  may  come  to  this — it  may  be  our  last  and  only- 
resource  ;  and  if  it  were  so,  I  would  run  the  risk,  and  trust 
to  Grod  for  the  issue.  But  before  I  attempted  it,  I  would  use 
every  effort  to  put  the  matter  in  so  clear  a  light  that  the 
strongest  prejudice — even  General  Vivian's — must  own  itself 
conquered,  llemeniber,  you  will  come  before  your  father,  not 
as  the  son  whom  he  has  always  loved,  but  as  the  spendthrift 
gambler — I  am  using  harsh  words,  but  I  know  full  well  your 
father's  feeling — who  wounded  him  in  the  tenderest  point, 
and  bi'ought  sorrow,  and  what  he  considers  disgrace,  iij)on  his 
liousc." 

A   silence   of   suuic    moments   followed.     Tlic  words   luid 


1G8  CLEVE    HALL. 

indeed  been  sevevc,  and  Mr.  Vivian's  proud  spirit  could  litllo 
brook  them. 

Mr.  Lester  spoke  again  :  "  My  dear  Vivian,  if  I  do  not 
know  the  exaggeration  of  your  father's  mind,  and  if  I  wore 
not  certain  that  years  of  true  repentance  had  followed  upon 
the  ofi'ences  of  youth,  I  could  not  speak  as  I  do;  but  it  is  the 
very  consciousness  of  the  prejudice  against  which  you  have  to 
struggle  which  makes  me  fearful  lest  you  should  begin  the 
combat  at  a  disadvantage.  If  you  were  what  your  father 
thinks  you,  I  could  not  raise  a  finger  to  help  you.  Being  what 
I  know  you  are,  I  would  sacrifice  fortune  and  happiness,  and 
even  life,  for  your  sake." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,  my  truest,  kindest  friend.  I  was  wrong;" 
and  Mr.  Vivian  .stretched  out  one  hand  in  reconciliation,  while 
the  other  vainly  strove  to  hide  the  tears  which  gathered  in  his 
eyes. 

"But,"  continued  Mr.  Lester,  more  lightly,  ''I  must  not 
have  to  deal  with  wilfulness  and  impatience.  So  far,  Vivian, 
you  arc  unaltered :  endurance  is  the  lesson  which  you  have 
yet  to  learn." 

"  Eighteen  years  ! — latterly  years  of  utter  loneliness.  It 
was  not  possible  to  endure  longer." 

"  All  things  which  God  gives  us  to  endure  are  possible," 
replied  Mr.  Lester;  "that  is,  of  course,  if  we  look  at  them 
in  the  right  way." 

"  And  to  bear  the  same  life  still,"  continued  Mr.  Vivian, 
"with,  no  fixed  hope  or  limit.     Can  it  be  neces.sary?" 

'  I  think  it  so ;  but  the  decision  must  be  left  to  yourself." 

"  And  if  it  should  be  right !  if  it  should  be  necessary  !  Oh, 
Lester,  my  heart  grows  sick  with  the  prospect." 

"  My  principle  of  endurance  might  sound  too  stern  for 
you,"  said  Mr.  Lester.  "  You  would  rather  hear  me  speak 
of  hope." 

"  I  would  hear  you  speak  of  that  which  would  be  your  own 
comfort." 

"  My  comfort  would  be  in  punishment,"  replied  Mr.  Les- 
ter, "  with  love  and  hope  to  soften  it,  yet  still  unmistakcably 
and  undeniably  punishment.  I  have  found  it  so  myself,"  he 
continued,  earnestly.  "  There  are  sufi"erings  which  come  upon 
us  immediately  from  the  hand  of  God,  without,  as  far  as  we 
can  discover,  any  fault  of  our  own.  Such,  we  may  believe, 
are  trials  of  oux  faith,  sent  in  mercy,  to  give  us  the  opportu- 
nity of  victory.    But  there  are  others,  the  consequences  of  our 


CLEVE   HALL.  109 

eiiis,  and  wliicli  we  cannot  fiiil  to  trace  directly  to  tliat  source. 
These  we  too  often  look  upon  as  the  natural  effects  of  our  own 
folly,  and  so  weary  ourselves  with  fruitless  regrets,  vain  long- 
ings to  undo  the  past ;  till  at  length  we  grow  despairing,  and 
the  feelings  of  God's  love,  which  can  alone  uphold  us  in  our 
suffering,  is  lost  in  the  consciousness  of  our  own  wretchedness. 
From  your  letters,  Vivian,  I  am  sure  you  understand  that  state 
of  mind  too  well." 

"  Understand  it,  yes ;  it  was  the  spirit  of  my  existence  for 
years." 

"  So  once  for  a  time  was  it  mine,  and  I  thought  it  was  re- 
pentance, and  dreaded  to  discourage  it;  but  repentance  is 
love,  and  in  this  feeling  there  is  no  love." 

"  Not  when  we  think  of  the  love  which  has  borne  with  us 
through  all  our  wanderings  ?" 

"  That  thought  will  not  come  when  we  are  writhing  vinder 
the  consequences  of  our  transgressions.  We  are  then  think- 
ing only  of  ourselves.  In  such  a  state  of  mind  there  is  but 
one  thing  which  I  find  will  calm  me — to  accept  the  suffering, 
whatever  it  may  be,  as  coming  at  once  from  God  as  a  punish- 
ment, or  perhaps,  more  truly  speaking,  a  correction ;  not  to  try 
to  escape  from  it,  nor  even  to  allow  myself  to  wish  that  I  had 
not  incurred  it,  but  humbly  and  thankfully  to  submit  to  it. 
There  is  a  sense  of  dignity  and  energy  in  this  willing  accept- 
ance of  our  lot,  which  I  believe  to  %e  absolutely  essential  to 
save  us  from  the  loss  of  self-respect,  that  must  otherwise  ac- 
company sufferings  resulting  from  past  sin.  Our  will  becomes 
one  with  God's  will,  and  love  must  follow  necessarily.  JMy 
dear  Vivian,  am  I  wrong  in  speaking  to  you  as  I  have  often 
written  ?" 

"Right,  and  most  kind;  but  I  must  think  of  what  you 
gay  another  time.  If  I  follow  your  advice,  I  shall  have  full 
leisure." 

"  I  trust  not  for  long.  Miss  Campbell  has  already  enlisted 
a  champion  in  your  cause." 

Mr.  Vivian  heaved  a  deep  sigh :  "  Poor  Bertha,  I  longed 
to  sec  and  talk  to  her  also.  There  are  some  things  in  which 
she  alone  can  sympathize.  Yet  she  was  little  more  than  a 
child  when  we  parted." 

"  She  is  a  woman  now,  and  a  noble  one ;  with  faults  indeed 
— who  is  without  them  ? — but  with  a  spirit  of  devoted  un- 
selfishness, which  fits  her  for  any  work  that  may  be  given  her. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  this  afternoon's  adventure,  I  was  going 
8 


170  CLEVE    HALL. 

to  snf:;gest,  what  perhaps  would  have  startled  you,  that  yoo 
should^'mcet  her  at  the  llectory,  aud  make  yourself  kiiowu  tc 
her." 

"  ]]cfure  I  see  Mildred  :  is  that  fair?" 

<'  We  must  take  circumstances  as  they  come  before  us. 
You  coidd  not  possibly  go  to  the  Hall  without  the  greatest  risk, 
and  INlildred  cannot  come  to  you.  Besides,  I  have  an  idea 
that  IMiss  Campbell  already  suspects  the  truth.  It  is  one  thing 
which  has  made  me  especially  uneasy." 

''  How  ?  I  have  most  carefully  avoided  her." 

"  llachel  gave  me  the  hint,  though  unintentionally.  Your 
present  to  her  excited  Miss  Campbell's  interest  and  curiosity 
strangely." 

"My  poor  bird  !  It  belonged  to  the  child  of  a  frj'^nd  in 
Jamaica,  who  was  named  after  my  dear  wife.  I  thought  no 
one  but  myself  would  recognise  the  name  in  its  uncouth  notes." 

"  IJertha  did  ;  and  she  has  asked  many  ((uostions  about  you 
which  llachel  repeated  to  me.  We  should  do  wisely  to  trust 
her." 

Mr.  Vivian's  countenance  changed  :  "  You  will  think  me 
a  coward,  Lester.  One  moment  I  long  for  the  meeting — the 
next  I  dread  it.  The  remembrances  which  the  expression  of 
her  face,  the  sound  of  her  voice,  will  recall,  are  so  intensely 
painful,  I  should  but  make  a  fool  of  myself." 

"  Nevertheless  it  is  tlue  to  her,  when  she  is  working  for 
you  in  every  way,  with  all  her  heart." 

''And  my  precious  Mildred  to  be  left,"  continued  Mr. 
Vivian,  musingly. 

"  We  will  not  say  that  absolutely.  I  desire  almost  more 
than  you  do  to  put  Mildred  in  possession  of  the  truth;  but  it 
would  be  agony  to  know  you  were  here,  and  not  to  see  you. 
And  indeed,  Vivian,  you  must  not  remain  even  for  another 
day,  if  you  wish  to  make  your  secret  safe." 

"  My  own  folly  again  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vivian.  "  Yet  how, 
at  such  a  moment,  could  I  remember  the  boy  was  near  ?" 

"  That  is  your  least  danger.  Honorable  as  he  is,  he  would 
die  rather  than  betray  you.  But  IMrs.  Robinson  tells  me  that 
Goff  has  been  here  asking  curious  and  impertinent  questions. 
If  his  suspicions  are  in  the  most  remote  degree  excited,  it 
would  be  madness  to  delay  your  departure." 
"  To-morrow,  then, — must  it  be  ?" 

"To-morrow  I  would  advise;  but  I  would  not  go  too 
suddenly  or  secretly.     Come  to  me  early  at  the  Rectory.     Let 


CLEVE    HALL.  171 

Mrs.  Kobiuson  give  out  publicly  that  you  have  husiucss  in 
London  for  a  few  days.  In  the  middle  of  the  day  you  can  set 
off,  and  all  will  seem  to  follow  in  the  natural  course.  It  will 
be  supposed  you  are  to  return,  and  we  may  hope  to  escape 
observation." 

Mr.  Vivian  was  thoughtful.  '■'■  That  boy  Ronald,"  he  said, 
''  to  have  saved  my  own  life,  and  the  life  of  my  child,  and  yet 
to  be  my  deadly  foe  !" 

"  Ronald  is  no  one's  foe,"  replied  Mr.  Lester.  "  He  has 
that  in  him  which  would  make  him  every  one's  friend,  could 
the  check  once  be  securely  placed  upon  his  ungoverned  feel- 
ings.    Throw  yourself  upon  his  honor,  and  you  are  safe." 

"  I  was  afraid  to  do  so  at  the  time.  The  words  escaped 
me  at  a  moment  when  he  was  not,  I  hoped,  near  enough  to 
catch  them.  Nothing  in  his  manner  showed  that  he  had  done 
so ;  and  when  my  presence  of  mind  returned,  I  felt  it  might 
be  better  to  leave  them  without  comment." 

Mr.  Lester  looked  a  little  anxious. 

"  You  don't  thoroughly  trust  him,"  continued  Mr.  Vivian. 

''  I  could  do  so  entirely  if  I  cared  less.  He  already  knows, 
I  believe,  something  of  the  position  of  affairs,  so  far  as  his 
father  is  concerned.  INIiss  Campbell  is  his  friend — she  was 
his  mother's  friend — and  she  has  great  influence  with  him. 
Last  evening  she  had  a  long  interview  with  him,  and  to-night 
she  was  to  tell  me  what  had  passed.  It  might  be  wise  to 
return  with  me  to  the  Rectory.  We  shall  find  her  there 
probably;  and  we  could  see  our  way  more  clearly,  if  we  knew 
exactly  how  far  Ronald  would  go  with  us  or  against  us." 

Mr.  Vivian  hesitated. 

*'  Have  you  any  other  plan  ?" 

"  A  mad  one  1  To  go  to  Mildred,  and  then  throw  myself 
upon  my  father's  mercy.  The  impulse  is  almost  uncon- 
trollable." 

"  So  have  been  all  your  impulses  through  life.  A  false 
step  at  this  moment,  and  farewell  to  hope  for  ever." 

Mr.  Vivian  paced  the  room  in  extreme  agitation. 

"  Your  hat !  Vivian.  You  will  come  ?"  That  firm  yet 
gentle  voice  had  controlled  him  before,  in  his  most  excited 
moments,  and  now  he  obeyed  it  as  by  an  instinct.  They  went 
down  stairs  together.     Mrs.  Robinson  met  them. 

"  Only  to  the  Rectoiy,"  said  jMr.  Lester,  smiling  as  he  saw 
her  disturbed  face. 


172  CLEVE    HALL. 

"And  you  won't  return  homo  late  by  yourself.  Obi 
blaster  Kdward,  you  will  be  careful.      Sir,  you  won't  let  him." 

Mr.  Vivian  took  her  hand  affectionately:  "Dear  Granny, 
you  mustn't  be  afraid  for  mc.  These  are  not  days  for  rubbery 
and  murder  in  the  highways." 

"But  that  fellow  Goff,  IMaster  Edward, — I  beg  your 
pardon, — Mr.  Brace,"  and  she  drew  back  respectfully,  as  one 
of  the  farm  servants  crossed  the  passage. 

"  Don't  fear,  I  won't  keep  you  up  late ;"  and  Mv.  Vivian 
nodded  a  kindly  good-b'yc.     But  Mr.  Lester  lingered  behind. 

"  I  have  hope,"  he  whispered.  "  lie  will  consent  to  go 
for  the  present;  and  for  the  future  we  must  tnist  all  to  God." 

"  Thank  you,  Sir.  Yes,  we  must  all  do  that,  indeed,"  and 
Mrs.  Robinson  dropped  a  formal  yet  reverent  curtsey,  and 
retired. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


IT  was  about  nine  o'clock,  and  Bertha  and  Rachel  were  toge- 
ther in  Mr.  Lester's  study.  Bertha  was  only  just  come, 
and  she  still  wore  the  shawl  which  she  had  thrown  over  her 
shoulders  as  she  crossed  the  garden :  she  looked  fagged  but 
excited. 

"  And  you  are  quite  sure  Ella  will  be  pretty  well  to-mor- 
row ?"  said  Rachel. 

"  Yes,  I  hope, — I  think  so.  But,  oh !  Rachel,  such  a 
fearful  situation !  If  Mr.  Bruce  had  not  tried  to  cross  the 
tarn  in  the  tiny  boat,  when  he  heard  her  scream,  he  would 
never  have  discovered  her  as  quickly  as  he  did." 

Bertha  sank  down  trembling  in  the  arm  chair. 

Rachel  drew  a  footstool  towards  her,  and  sat  down  at  her 
feet.     "  I  was  afraid  to  ask  to  see  her,"  she  said. 

"She  was  better  alone,"  replied  Bertha j  "Mr.  Hargrave 
told  me  that  perfect  quietness  was  indispensable.  I  think  the 
fainting  was  good  for  her  in  some  ways.  I  dread  what  it  will 
be  when  she  can  recall  it  all  more  distinctly.  Yet  one  ought 
to  be  so  thankful !"  and  Bertha  heaved  a  sigh,  which  ended 
in  a  shudder. 

"  T  don't  think  Ella  can  forget  it,"  said  Rachel,  thouohf,. 
fully. 


CLEVE   HALL.  1  (  i 

"It  is  not  meant  she  sliould;  but  slie  is  very  slow  in 
learning  her  lessons." 

Piachel's  face  expressed  a  little  wonder. 

"Everything'  that  happens  gives  us  some  lesson,  if  we 
choose,"  said  Bertha;  "but  you  don't  understand  that  yet, 
Rachel." 

"  Don't  I  ?  dear  Miss  Campbell.  Isn't  it  like  what  papa 
says,  '  That  crosses  cease  to  be  crosses  when  we  take  them  up 
instead  of  looking  at  them.'  " 

"  Yes,  something  like  it;  but,  Eachcl,  it  is  so  odd,  1  can't 
think"to-night."  Bertha  put  her  hand  to  her  head,  and  rising 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  and  then  sat  down  again. 
"  Would  you  fetch  me  a  little  sal  volatile,  Bachel  V  and  Ra- 
chel, rather  frightened,  left  the  room.  Bertha  leant  her  head 
back  in  the  chair.  That  swimming,  faint,  weak  feeling  which 
made  her  so  ashamed  of  herself  must  surely  be  hysterical, 
and  she  must  struggle  against  it.  She  seized  a  book, — the 
page  was  all  in  motion  before  her.  She  saw  no  letters, — only 
a  phantom  scene  of  a  steep  cliff,  and  rolling,  shivering  pebbles  ; 
and  Ella  sliding — sliding, — and  the  dark  gulf  below.  She 
was  upon  the  verge  of  giving  way,  when  Rachel  held  out  to 
her  the  glass  of  sal  volatile.  Bertha  drank  it  off:  "Thank 
you,  dear:  now  I  am  better.  Oh,  that  horrible  cliif!"  and 
she  shook  again  from  head  to  foot. 

Rachel  held  her  hand,  "  Dear  Miss  Campbell !  she  is  safe." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it;  it  might  not  have  been  :  we  must  thank 

God.     Rachel    dear,  would   you  mind 1   think,  if  you 

would  read  to  me,  I  could  tiy  and  listen." 

"  The  Bible  ?"  said  Rachel,  timidly. 

"Yes  —  St.  John;  the  seventeenth  chapter,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

Rachel  brought  a  Bible ;  but  she  felt  shy.  She  had  never 
had  to  comfort  or  help  any  one  older  than  herself  before,  at 
least  in  that  way.  And  Bertha  was  so  above  her — so  shut  up 
from  her !     She  turned  over  the  leaves  slowly. 

Bertha's  eyes  were  shut :  she  looked  quite  ill.  Rachel 
felt  as  if  she  could  not  begin.  If  it  had  been  little  Barney 
Wood  who  had  asked  her,  she  would  have  had  no  hesitation. 
Her  voice  was  quite  low  from  nervousness  when  she  sj^oke 
the  first  sentence;  but  as  she  went  on,  her  own  feelings  were 
carried  away  by  the  words,  and  the  rich,  musical  tones  grew 
deeply  earnest,  and,  acting  with  a  soothing  charm  upon  Ber 


174  CLEVE  HALL. 

tha's   overworked    temperament,    gradually   lulled    her    into 
tranquillity'. 

llaehcrs  hand  was  resting  on  Bertha's  lap  :  Bertha  stroked 
it  fondly  as  the  chapter  was  ended,  and  the  book  closed. 

''  Thank  you,  dear  Rachel,  you  have  done  me  good  :  you 
do  me  good  always." 

"  Because  you  are  so  kind,  you  say  that,  dear  Miss  Camp- 
bell.    It  is  very  easy  to  read." 

"  Yes,  only  I  could  not  bear  some  people's  reading.  Oh  ! 
Rachel,  I  wonder  who  made  you  what  you  are  ?" 

"  God  made  me,"  said  Rachel,  quietly. 

Bertha  smiled.  "  God  makes  us,  and  we  unmake  our- 
selves," she  said.  "  But  you  have  had  *  safe  childhood, 
Rachel." 

"  I  know  persons  think  so,"  said  Rachel,  thoughtfully. 

"  And  don't  you?" 

"  I  can't  tell ;  if  I  was  good,  I  dare  say  I  should  feel  it  so. 
But  sometimes — is  it  very  wrong,  Miss  Campbell  ? — I  tliiulc 
it  is  like  Paradise  with  the  sei-pent  in  it." 

"  Yes,  the  safest  home  on  earth  must  be  that,"  said  Beilha. 
"  But,  Rachel,  you  must  be  thankful  still  that  yours  is  not 
what  other  homes  are."  She  spoke  with  an  earnestness  which 
showed  that  the  difference  had  lately  been  peculiarly  brought 
before  her. 

"  I  try  to  be  thankful,"  replied  Rachel ;  "  but  you  know" 
— and  she  smiled  shyly — "  when  the  serpent  comes  I  am  not ; 
and  that  makes  me  unhappy — very  unhappy  sometimes." 

"  Ah,  Rachel !  so  you  fancy;  but  you  can't  really  know 
what  unhappiness,  or,  at  least,  sorrow,  means." 

"  I  did  know  it  once" — Rachel's  color  went  and  came 
quickly — ''  when  dear  mamma  died,  and  my  little  sister :  I 
thought  then  I  was  never  to  be  happy  again." 

"  Only  papa  taught  you  how,"  said  Bertha,  kindly. 

"Yes,  he  teaches  me  always;  and  he  lets  me  tell  him  my 
difficulties.  Do  you  know,  31iss  Campbell" — and  she  moved 
htu-  stool  so  as  to  look  \ip  in  Bertha's  face — "  I  have  some 
great  ones." 

Bertha's  hand  rested  aflPcctlonately  upon  Rachel's  head,  as 
she  replied  :  "  Yes,  dear  child,  great  ones  to  you,  no  doubt." 

*'  Such  wonderful,  puzzing  questions  come  into  my  head," 
continued  Rachel ;  "  and  it  seems  as  if  I  could  do  nothing 
till  they  were  settled.  But  I  must  not  stop  for  them,  must 
[  ?     Papa  tells  me,"  she  added,  her  voice  sinking,  "  that  they 


CLEVE   HALL.  175 

are  the  serpent's  questions,  and  if  I  stay  to  answer  them,  the^^ 
will  keep  me  back;  and  what  I  want  is  to  go  on  and  on,  never 

to  srow  tired,  or  to  fall  back;  because "  she  hid  her  face 

in  Bertha's  lap.  "  Oh  !  Miss  Campbell,  Papa  says,  those  who 
strive  the  most,  will  stand  near,  and  have  a  bright,  bright 
crown ;  and  I  could  not  bear  to  be  far  oS." 

Bertha's  eyes  were  full  of  tears ;  she  could  but  kiss  Rachel 
and  say  :  "  Ah  !  Rachel,  if  it  were  possible  to  make  Ella  think 
as  you  do !" 

''  Ella  will  be  sure  to  try  more  after  to-day,"  said  Rachel. 

Bertha  was  very  grave  :  ''  I  hope  so.  She  ought  to  remem- 
ber the  warning.  But  she  has  had  many.  One  moment  more, 
and  it  would  have  beeu  all  over."  The  shuddering  feeling 
seemed  about  to  return. 

"  Don't  talk  about  it,  dear  Miss  Campbell,"  said  Rachel, 
anxiously.     "  It  makes  you  ill  again." 

"  I  try  not,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  must.  It  haunts  me  so;  and 
when  I  close  my  eyes,  it  all  comes  before  me  again." 

'^  It  was  very  dreadful,"  said  Rachel,  ''  when  papa  came 
and  told  me  of  it;  and  it  must  have  been  much  worse  for 
you." 

"  I  longed  so  very  much  for  your  papa,"  continued  Bertha. 
"  I  thought  at  first,  when  I  saw  Ronald  and  Mr.  Bruce  at  a 
distance  with  Ella,  that  Mr.  Bruce  was  Mr.  Lester,  and  my 
heart  sank  terribly  when  I  found  he  was  not." 

"  Papa  says  Mr.  Bruce  did  more  for  her  than  even  Ronald," 
observed  Rachel :  "  did  Ella  thank  him  very  much  ?" 

"  He  would  not  stay  to  be  thanked,"  replied  Bertha.  "  You 
know  they  brought  her  home  in  Farmer  Corbin's  little  chaise, 
and  Mrs.  Corbin  came  with  her.  She  was  so  dizzy  she  scarcely 
knew  what  was  going  on ;  and  when  they  came  to  the  shrub- 
bery-gate, Mr.  Bruce  said,  that  now  she  would  be  in  such 
good  hands  he  would  leave  her.  He  has  gone  before  Ella 
could  know  it,  and  without  even  waiting  to  see  me.  Very 
strange  1"     Bertha  fell  into  a  revery. 

Rachel  also  was  thoughtful,  and  once  she  seemed  about  to 
make  an  observation,  but  she  checked  herself.  There  was  a 
silence  of  some  moments.  When  they  spoke  again,  the  sub- 
ject was  changed. 

"  How  little  papa  and  I  thought  what  was  going  to  happen 
when  we  set  off  for  our  walk  this  afternoon !"  said  Rachel. 
"  I  was  so  happy.  It  was  such  a  delicious  afternoon  ;  and  we 
went  above  the  hollow,  instead  of  under  it,  which  is  just  what 


ITG  CLEVE    HALL. 

I  like.  AikI  then  T  luitl  to  look  forward  to  coming  back  an  J 
driuking  tea  with  Ella  and  you.  And  now  it  is  all  so  ditl'cr- 
cut !  It  seems  as  if  I  never  could  trust  to  anything  again." 

Bertha  smiled:  '' You  will,  though,  llachel;  in  a  day  or 
two, — a  week  at  the  utmost, — you  will  feel  just  as  you  did 
before,  or,  at  least,  very  nearly  so." 

"  But  that  will  be  wicked,"  said  Rachel. 

"Not  exactly.  We  ai'c  so  formed  by  God  that  we  can't 
help  it;  and  the  world  would  stand  still  if  it  were  not  so." 

"  I^dou't  understand  that;  it  does  seem  wrong." 

"  Just  think,"  replied  Bertha,  "  what  the  state  of  the 
world  would  be  if  we  did  not  believe  that  things  were  to  be 
to-morrow  as  they  are  to-day.  No  one  would  form  plans,  or 
make  engagements,  or  provide  in  any  way  for  the  future ;  all 
business  would  be  at  au  end,  and  universal  confusion  would 
follow.  It  always  seems  to  me  one  of  the  most  astonishing 
things  in  human  nature  that,  with  our  great  experience  of 
change,  we  yet  should  have  such  untiring  faith  in  continu- 
ance. Sometimes," — Bertha  paused,  and  glanced  at  llachcl, 
<loul)ting  whether  she  might  venture  to  carry  out  her  own 
thought ;  then,  as  the  eager,  inquiring  eye  was  bent  upon  her 
with  evident  interest,  she  added — "  sometimes  I  think  that 
it  must  be  a  relic  of  the  higher  nature  in  which  we  were  firet 
created,  and  in  which  there  would  have  been,  we  may  believe, 
no  sudden  change,  but  only  a  gradual  transition  from  one  state 
of  existence  to  another.  If  one  may  say  it  without  irreve- 
rence, it  seems  like  all  our  deep  instincts — such  as  the  craving 
for  perfection,  and  the  inextinguishable  love  of  life — to  belong 
properly  to  Him,  who,  as  the  Bible  says,  '  is  the  same  yester- 
day, to-day,  and  to-morrow.'  But,  Rachel,  I  don't  know  why 
I  should  talk  in  that  way  to  you." 

"  I  like  it,"  said  Rachel,  quickly — "  it  is  the  way  papa 
talks — and  it  makes  me  feel  as  I  do  sometimes  when  I  am  left 
all  alone,  and  I  stand  still  and  think  how  wonderful  it  is  to 
live." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Bertha,  "  so  wonderful  that  if  we  believe 
in  our  own  existence,  there  is  nothing  else  which  need  sur- 
prise us." 

Rachel  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead.  "  It  makes  one 
dizzy,"  she  said;  "and  do  you  know.  Miss  Campbell,  all  the 
thoughts  and  the  feelings  come  upon  me,  now  and  then,  in 
such  a  strange  way,  just  as  if  they  were  the  only  things  worth 


CLEVE    HALL.    .  177 

3Pa'ing  for,  and  as  if  I  could  do  nothing  but  sit  in  the  middle 
of  the  world  and  think." 

"  The  feeling  must  be  good  and  useful  occasionally,"  said 
Bertha  :  "  but^  dear  Kachel,  you  must  not  let  yourself  become 
a  dreamer." 

"  No." — Rachel's  face  grew  sad.  "  Papa  says  it  is  my 
temptation,  and  that  I  shall  never  conquer  it,  except  by  learn- 
ing to  live  out  of  myself, — living,  as  he  calls  it,  in  the  life  of 
others." 

''  Being  unselfish.  I  am  sure  I  think  you  are  that  j"  and 
Bertha  bent  down  and  kissed  the  lovely  little  face,  which  was 
gazing  up  at  her  with  its  marvellous  expression  of  iuward 
thought. 

Rachel  blushed  deeply,  whilst  a  watery  mist  for  the  moment 
dimmed  the  brightness  of  her  deep  blue  eyes :  "■  Dear  Miss 
Campbell,  I  like  you  to  say  that ;  but  I  ought  not  to  like  it, 
because  I  am  not  unselfish ;  but  I  do  long  to  be  so,  aiore  than 
I  can  tell.  Something  which  papa  said  has  helped  me,  though, 
when  I  have  been  inclined  to  despair  because  the  dreamy  fits 
have  come  upon  me,  and  I  have  felt  as  if  I  must  give  way  to 
them." 

"  Papa  has  helped  you,  then,  as  he  has  me,"  observed 
Bertha;   "  he  has  given  me  a  number  of  useful  hints." 

"  He  seems  to  understand  so  well,"  replied  Rachel.  ''One 
day,  when  I  was  talking  about  persons'  natural  dispositions, 
and  how  strange  it  was  they  were  so  different,  he  said  to  me, 
that  if  we  look  into  our  own  characters,  we  shall  find  that  God 
has  given  us  all  some  quality  to  counterbalance  our  natural 
faults.  A  passionate  person  generally  has  energy,  and  an 
indolent  person  kind-heartedness,  and  a  selfish  person  perse- 
verance. There  is  always  something,  which,  if  we  use  it 
properly,  will  be  a  great  assistance  to  us.  Of  course  he  meant 
with  God's  help.  And  then  he  said  to  me,  that  my  disposi- 
tion led  me  to  dream  away  my  time,  and  to  think  of  puzzling 
questions,  instead  of  being  really  good ;  and  that  if  I  gave 
way  to  it  too  much  I  should  grow  up  to  be  selfish ;  but  he 
said  that  I  had  something  in  me  which  would  counteract  it, 
if  I  tried  very  hard,  and  prayed  very  earnestly;  he  called  it 
benevolence."  Rachel  stopped,  and  a  smile  passed  over  her 
face  as  she  added — "  That  seems  a  grown-up  virtue.  I  never 
can  fancy  a  benevolent  child;  it  seems  so  very  droll." 

Bertha  smiled  too,  as  she  exclaimed,  "  Go  on ;  tell  m€ 
what  else  papa  said." 


178  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  ITc  explained  what  lie  meant  afterwards,''  contiinied 
Rachel.  "  lie  said  that  when  people  arc  benevolent  they  dis- 
like to  see  others  sufler,  and  can't  bear  to  oiye  pain.  It  is 
not  any  cood  in  them  exactly,  they  can't  help  it.  And,  MisH 
Canipbeff" — Rachel's  color  rose,  and  she  rather  hesitated-r-"  I 
think  perhaps  he  may  be  right;  for  it  does  make  me  so  exceed- 
iimlv  uncomfortable  to  see  other  persons  so.  lie  told  me  then 
that^  I  was  to  act  upon  the  feeling  whenever  I  possibly  could, 
and  that  it  would  help  me  to  keep  myself  what  he  called  prac- 
tical. And  so  I  have  tried  to  do  it ;  but  sometimes  it  is  very 
difficult;  only  I  think  it  is  easier  than  it  was.  You  know  it 
is  a  good  thing  to  be  told  what  one  ought  to  encourage  most 
in  oneself." 

"  And  did  not  papa  tell  you  that  benevolent  people  are  very 
often  in  danger  of  becoming  weak  ?"  said  Bertha,  following 
out  her  own  ideas,  without  considering  what  effect  they  might 
have  upon  her  little  companion. 

Rachel  looked  distressed.  "  He  did  not  tell  me  so ;  but  is 
it  true  ?  must  I  be  weak  ?" 

<'  I  don't  say  you  must,  but  I  know  that  a  great  many  per- 
sons who  set  up  for  being  benevolent  arc  very  weak." 

"  Perhaps  they  are  nothing  else  except  benevolent,"  ob- 
served Eachcl,  after  a  moment's  thought.  "Papa  declares 
that  virtues,  when  they  stand  alone,  become  vices." 

"  Yes."     Bertha  considered  a  little.     "  That  may  be." 

"  It  was  rather  difficult  to  understand  it  all,  that  day  he 
talked,"  continued  Rachel ;  "  but  I  think  he  said,  that  per- 
fection—God's perfection" — and  her  voice  changed  into  awe 
— "  is  because  all  His  great  attributes  (that  is  what  I  ought 
to  say,  isn't  it  ?)  are  equal, — equally  balanced,  papa  called  it ; 
that  He  is  not  more  just  than  He  is  merciful,  and  not  more 
merciful  than  He  is  just;  and  therefore  we  ought  to  tiy  to  be 
the  same :  and  when  we  pride  ourselves  upon  any  one  virtue 
above  others  we  may  be  quite  sure  we  are  likely  to  go  wrong. 
It  made  me  rather  unhappy  to  hear  him  say  so,  because  he 
spoke  as  if  the  very  best  people  must  be  so  imperfect." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  they  are,"  said  Bertha. 

"I  suppose  they  must  be.  Bat,  dear  IMiss  Campbell,  it 
does  not  seem  so  to  me." 

"  You  are  so  young,  Rachel.  But  certainly  you  must  take 
care  not  to  pride  yourself  upon  benevolence." 

"  Else  I  shall  become  weak ;  but  you  know  there  is  my 
love  of  standing  still  and  thinking  to  check  it.     Oh  !  Mis; 


CLEVE   HALL.  179 

Campbell,  doesn't  it  seem  very  hard  sometimes,  to  think  that 
we  must  go  on  always  in  that  way,  first  at  one  thing  and  then 
at  the  other  ?" 

"  Trying  to  make  the  scale  equal,"  said  Bertha. 

"  Yes.  Do  you  know,  papa  says  that  when  we  have  learnt 
to  keep  our  faults  under,  our  next  work  is  to  keep  our  virtues 
even.  And  he  told  me  that  he  had  known  some  good  persons 
do  such  wrong  things  because  they  did  not  attend  to  this. 
One  very  generous  person  would  give  away  sums  of  money, 
and  never  cared  in  the  least  for  his  own  comfort;  but  he  did 
not  check  himself  properly,  and  at  last  he  had  nothing  left  to 
pay  his  debts,  and  so  was  dreadfully  unjust :  and  another  very 
just,  particular  person,  was  so  careful  not  to  owe  anything, 
and  so  determined  to  provide  for  everything  which  might  be 
a  claim  upon  him,  that  at  last  he  would  not  give  away  at  all. 
That  was  the  difference,  papa  told  me,  also,  between  large  and 
narrow  minds.  I  didn't  know  what  was  meant  by  them  be- 
fore. He  said  that  if  persons  tiy  to  keep  their  virtues  evenly 
balanced,  they  have  large  minds ;  but  if  they  allow  one  to 
weigh  down  the  rest,  then  they  have  narrow  minds." 

A  large  subject,  and  one  which  opened  a  wide  field  of 
thought  to  Bertha  Campbell.  Eachel  was  unable  to  read  her 
friend's  countenance;  she  even  doubted  whether  she  had 
listened;  she  could  not  feel  that  she  was  interested.  Reserve 
was  creeping  over  thera.  But  the  hall  bell  rang,  and  Mr. 
Lester  and  Edward  Vivian  entered  the  room. 

Rachel's  greeting  hid  Bertha's  start  of  surprise.  She  ran 
up  to  Mr.  Vivian  with  the  simple  affection  natural  to  her,  and 
exclaimed  :  "  Oh  !  is  it  you,  Sir  ?  and  are  you  hurt  ?" 

"  Not  hurt,  my  child ;  how  should  I  be  ?  I  was  in  no  dan- 
ger;  but — "  and  he  turned  to  Bertha,  and  his  manner  became 
very  stiff  and  awkward — "I  hope  Ella — Miss  Vivian" — he 
did  not  seem  to  know  what  inquiry  to  make,  and  sat  down  in 
the  nearest  chair,  turning  bis  head  away  from  Bertha. 

"  Rachel,  my  love,  j'our  bed  is  waiting  for  you,"  said  Mr. 
Lester. 

Rachel  knew  quite  well  what  that  meant.  Business  was 
going  on  which  she  was  not  to  hear.  But  curiosity  had  been 
checked  in  her  from  infancy;  and  the  instinct  of  refined  feel- 
ings made  her  at  once  ready  to  go  without  asking,  as  she  might 
iiave  done  at  another  time,  to  be  allowed  to  learn  more  of  the 
accident. 

"Good  night,  dear  Miss  Campbell." 


180  CLEVE    HALL. 

Bertlr.i's  kiss  was  icy,  so  also  was  the  toucli  of  hen-  fiugers; 
it  did  uot  appoar  that  she  was  quite  conscious  of  llachera 
presence. 

''Good  night,  little  one,"  said  Mr.  Vivian.  He  laid  his 
hands  upon  her  shoulders,  and  gazed  at  her  intently. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  were  not  hurt,"  whispered  Eachel ; 
and  she  went  up  to  her  father,  always  under  all  circumstances 
the  claimant  of  her  last  words  and  thoughts. 

*'  God  bless  you,  my  precious  child  !" 

"  Good  night,  darling  papa  !  You  will  come  and  see  me 
the  last  thing;"  and  Kachel  ran  away,  happy  in  the  con- 
sciousness that  even  if  she  should  be  asleep,  a  fond  kiss  and 
an  earnest  prayer  were  in  store  for  her  again  before  the  night 
should  pass. 

The  door  closed.  Mr.  Lester  placed  h'mself  between  Bertha 
and  Mr.  Vivian.  There  was  a  painful,  awkward  silence. 
Then  Mr.  Lester  asked  a  few  questions  about  Ella.  Bertha 
answered  in  a  tone  of  nervous  confusion.  After  a  few  moments 
she  said  that  she  must  go. 

"  Not  just  yet."  Mr.  Lester  touched  the  arm  of  the  chair 
to  prevent  her  from  rising.     "  Mrs.  Campbell  will  spare  you  a 

little  longer.     There  is, — we  have "  he  broke  off  suddenly, 

and  glanced  appealingly  at  Mr.  Vivian. 

Bertha  turned  very  pale ;  her  eyes  moved  uneasily  from  one 
to  the  other.  Mr.  Lester  seemed  about  to  speak  again ;  his 
lips  even  framed  the  words ;  yet  he  hesitated. 

Bertha  broke  the  spell ;  and,  gently  pushing  aside  jMr. 
Lester's  hand,  rose,  and  approaching  Mr.  Vivian,  said,  in  a 
firm,  calm  voice,  "■  Edward,  you  cannot  deceive  me."  The 
struggle  was  over,  and  she  sat  down  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Leave  her  to  me,  Lester."  Mr.  Vivian  knelt  on  one 
knee  by  Bertha's  chair,  and  holding  her  hand  in  his,  said, 
"Bertha,  you  are  not  grieved  to  see  me?  My  Flora's  sister; 
the  adopted  mother  of  my  children  !  you  don't  think  it  wrong 
in  me  to  be  here  ?" 

Bertha's  voice  was  choked,  but  she  returned  the  kindly 
pressure  of  his  hand.  He  went  on  : — "  You  must  not  say  I 
have  deceived  you,  Bertha.  I  have  deceived  no  one.  I  acted 
upon  an  impulse  :  the  opportunity  offered, — I  was  unable  to 
resist  it.  1  will  be  true ;  I  did  not  try  to  do  so ;  I  was  so 
wretched.  Lester  did  not  know  it ;  no  one  knew  it.  I  meant 
to  have  gone  to  London.  I  could  have  hid  myself  there ;  but 
it  was  accident — Providence — which  brought  me  here;  and  I 


CLEVE   HALL.  1^1 

am  going ; — don't  be  frightened  at  what  may  seem  my  reck- 
lessness ;  I  am  not  reckless  now,  I  have  learnt  priideuce ;  and 
I  am  going ; — but  I  could  not  leave  you  in  ignorance." 

''Going,  again!"  repeated  Bertha,  in  a  tone  of  bewilder- 
ment, whilst  her  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  him,  as  if  she 
scarcely  believed  in  the  reality  of  his  appearance. 

"  He  is  going,  because  it  is  best  and  wisest  that  he  should, 
for  a  time  at  least,"  observed  Mr.  Lester.  "  But,  dear  Miss 
Campbell,  you  must  hear  him  tell  his  own  tale.  I  will  leave 
you,  unless  you  think  it  might  be  better  to  delay  what  must 
be  said  until  to-morrow." 

''  If  you  would  tell  me  what  it  all  means,"  said  Bertha,  her 
manner  recovering  itself  and  returning  to  something  of  its 
former  composed  self-restraint.  "  Edward,  have  you  really 
done  wisely  ?"     Her  tone  was  a  little  severe. 

He  answered  quickly, — "  Not  wisely  in  Lester's  eyes,  nor 
perhaps  in  yours ;  but  wisely  in  my  own.  Bertha,  you  were  a 
child  when  we  parted,  yet  I  should  have  thought  that  events 
had  taught  you  to  feel  for  me." 

Her  lip  quivered.  "  Our  love  lies  buried  in  the  same 
grave.  Your  children  are  as  my  children ;  your  interests  as 
my  interests." 

"  Then  your  feelings  must  be  my  feelings,"  he  exclaimed 
with  impetuosity ;  "  and  from  you  at  least  I  shall  meet  with 
sympathy.  Ten  mournful  years  of  solitude,  Bertha,  may  and 
must  be  my  excu.se." 

"  Yes  ;  but  if  all  is  marred  in  consequence  ?" 

"  It  shall  not  be.  I  put  myself  into  your  hands.  I  trust 
you  as — "  his  voice  faltered — "  as  my  Flora's  sister  deserves 
to  be  trusted.  You  and  Lester  shall  decide  for  me.  To- 
morrow I  leave  this  place ;  I  will  hide  myself  in  London,  and 
appear  again  only  when  I  am  summoned.  Let  me  but  have 
the  blessing  of  feeling  that  I  am  within  reach  of  my  children ; 
that  I  may,  though  at  a  distance,  watch  over  my  boy.  Oh, 
Bertha  !  is  he  also  to  bring  care  upon  us  ?" 

Bertha  hesitated. 

"  Tell  me  truly.  I  would  know  the  worst.  Are  my 
children  to  bear  the  curse  of  their  father's  sins?" 

"  It  is  early  to  judge,"  replied  Bertha.  "  Clement  requires 
a  father's  authority." 

"And  he  cannot  have  it;  he  might  have  had  it  if  his 
father  had  not  been  the  fool — the  madman — he  was.     To  b<? 


182  CLEVE    HALL. 

deceived,  oiitr.ippod,  by  tlutt  man  I"  lie  paced  tlic  rooiv 
ungrily. 

"  You  could  not  liUTO  been  prepared  for  trcaeliery,"  replied 
Bertha. 

*'  I  ougbt  never  to  have  given  liini  power  over  me,"  -wan 
the  reply.  "  Yes ;  I  can  trace  it  all  now ;  I  have  gone  over 
the  steps  again  and  again.  It  has  been  the  occupation  of  my 
leisure  for  years,"  he  added,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  When 
lirst  1  went  abroad,  Bertha,  I  was  innocent,  innocent  as  the 
child  who  has  just  left  us — at  least  of  every  grave  offence; 
my  heart,  my  thoughts,  were  all  given  to  one  object, — an 
earthly  object, — and  God  took  it  from  me;"  and  his  voice 
trembled :  "  but  I  shrank  from  gambling ;  I  abhorred  low 
company ;  my  impulses  were  noble.  I  might  have  been — oli, 
weakness  !  weakness  !  surely  it  is  .nore  fatal  than  sin." 

"  The  weakness  which  is  conquered  may  become  doubly 
strength,"  observed  Mr.  Lester,  gently. 

''  Y'es,  when  it  is ;  but  is  it  ever  conquered  ?  I  feel  it 
still  in  myself.  I  struggle  with  it ;  but  too  often  I  yield.  I 
tremble  to  think  that  it  may  be  so  with  my  boy." 

"Vivian,  you  must  deal  with  yourself  justly,"  replied  Mr. 
Lester.  "You  have  labored  and  suffered  patiently;  you  have 
risen  from  ruin  which  might  have  been  the  death  of  every 
better  feeling.  Eighteen  years  of  probation  have  made  you, 
if  not  a  good  and  wise  man,  in  your  own  eyes,  at  least  one 
whom  the  world  may  respect,  and  friends  love,  and  whom — ■ 
from  my  heart  I  believe  it — God  will  approve.  It  is  vain 
therefore  to  look  back  upon  the  past  with  self-reproach,  which 
is  unavailing.  Rather,  rouse  your  spirit  for  the  future  ;  hope, 
and  if  you  cannot  hope,  trust.  The  God  who  has  not  deserted 
you  will  not  forsake  your  children." 

"  But  to  have  brought  evil  vipon  them !  to  have  injured 
them  !  Oh,  Lester  !  the  long,  lingering  train  of  sorrow  which 
the  fiery  comet  of  sin  drags  after  it !" 

"  Even  so,  for  us  all,"  replied  Mr.  Lester.  "  Yet  there  can 
be  no  cause  for  despair,  especially  as  regards  Clement." 

"But  is  there  the  power  in  him  to  improve?  that  is  what 
I  doubt,  and  dread." 

"  Power  lies  with  God,  not  with  us,"  replied  Mr.  Lester. 

"  Clement  has  great  faults,"  began  Bertha. 

"  But  he  has  very  noble  qualities,"  interrupted  Mr  Lester. 

Bertha  looked  annoyed.  "  It  is  quite  true,"  she  said, 
'  that  Clement  has  many  points  which  would,  in  themselves. 


CLEVE   HALL.  183 

form  a  fine  character ;  but  he  has  one  great  foible, — I  think 
his  father  was  always  free  from  it, — he  is  vain." 

Mr.  Vivian  showed  by  his  face  that  he  shrank  from  the 
suggestion.  '■'•  Vanity  !"  he  muttered,  "  in  a  man  ! — it  must 
lower  him !" 

"  It  must,  and  does  lower  every  one  ;  does  it  not  ?"  in- 
quired Bertha. 

''  But  Clement  has  sense  and  conscientiousness,"  observed 
Mr.  Lester.  "  He  is  a  gentleman,  too,  with  the  refined  feel- 
ings of  a  gentleman,  and  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  All 
these  things  will  be,  humanly  speaking,  aids." 

''  And  I  suppose  we  tnay  believe,"  continued  Bertha, ''  that 
his  position,  as  comparatively  poor  and  unknown,  may  have 
been  better  for  him  than  if  he  had  been  brought  up  as  the  heir 
of  Cleve.  He  at  least  has  not  been  petted  and  spoiled  by  the 
flatteiy  of  servants." 

'■'■  Thank  you ;  you  are  very  good,  very  kind.  And  Ella, 
too,  is  she  vain  ?"  The  question  was  asked  with  some  bit- 
txjrness. 

''Not  exactly.     Not  at  all,  I  think;  at  least "  Bertha 

locked  at  Mr.  Lester  for  assistance. 

"  We  will  talk  over  the  children's  faults  to-morrow,"  he 
said.     '■'■  Miss  Campbell  will  come  to  us  in  the  morning." 

Bertha  rose ;  she  seemed  conscious  that  something  of  un- 
comfortable restraint  had  crept  over  them;  and  remarked  that 
it  was  growing  late,  and  they  had  talked  of  nothing  definite. 

"  Because  there  is  little  to  be  said  as  yet,"  replied  Mr.  Les- 
ter. "  Vivian  leaves  us  to-morrow  for  London.  That,  at  least, 
you  will  consider  a  safe  step." 

''  Safe,  if  it  is  always  so  to  act  against  inclination,  as  mo- 
ralists contend,"  observed  Mr.  Vivian,  with  an  attempt  at  ease. 
"  Lester  has  fears  for  me.  Bertha,  which  I  can't  share." 

"  Miss  Campbell  will  understand  them,  I  am  sure,"  ob- 
eeiTed  Mr.  Lester.  '■'■  She  has  as  little  faith  in  John  Vivian 
as  I  have." 

"  Less,"  replied  Bertha  ;  '■'■  for  I  have  known  him  longer 
and  better  ;  but,  Edward,  you  won't  content  yourself  with  re- 
maining in  London." 

"  He  will  content  himself  with  doing  whatever  we  think 
best  for  him,  at  the  present,"  said  Mr.  Lester.  "  In  the  mean 
time,  Miss  Campbell,  we  must  trast  to  you  to  find  out,  as  soon 
as  possiljle,  whether  Ronald  suspects  our  secret;  and  if  he 
docs,  to  caution  him  as  to  keeping  it." 


184  CLEVE   HALL, 

"  Ronald  !  impossible  !" 

"  Scarcely  impossible,  wnen  a  man  betrays  his  own  coun- 
sel. Perhaps  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  Vivian  should 
be  master  of  himself  at  the  moment  he  saved  Ella." 

Bertha  looked  at  her  brother-in-law  for  exj^ilanation. 

"  It  is  very  true/'  he  said;  "  I  was  thrown  off  my  guard, 
and  forgot  the  young  fellow  was  near.  Whether  he  heard  or 
not,  I  can't  say.  He  looked  unconscious ;  but  I  would  not 
trust  him." 

*'  Not  trust  Ronald  !"  exclaimed  Bertha,  quickly.  ''  Noble, 
true-hearted,  unselfish,  he  would  sacrifice  his  life  before  ho 
would  betray  you." 

Mr.  Vivian  glanced  at  her  in  astonishment.  Her  manner 
was  singularly  unlike  what  it  had  been  when  she  spoke  of  his 
own  children. 

Mr.  Lester  read  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  "  Miss 
Campbell  has  reason  to  trust  Ronald,"  he  said  •  "  she  has 
known  him  from  infancy." 

"  Oh  I"  But  the  explanation  did  not  seem  thoroughly 
satisfactory ;  and  Mr.  Vivian's  manner  was  cold  as  he  added, 
— "  Bertha  must  forgive  me  for  distrusting  the  son  of  my 
greatest  enemy." 

"  I  know  that  every  one  must  distrust  him,"  said  Bertha. 

"  Every  one  but  myself,"  observed  Mr.  Lester.  "  I  had 
used  almost  the  same  words  as  yourself,  when  speaking  of  him 
to  Vivian,  a  short  time  since.  All  that  we  have  to  fear  is,  that 
he  may  incautiously  reveal  4he  truth  before  he  knows  that  it 
may  do  mischief.  That  is,  always  supposing  he  heard  Vivian's 
exclamation.  You,  perhaps,  will  find  that  out  more  easily  than 
any  one." 

"  We  are  safe  either  way,"  replied  Bertha,  still  with  the 
same  cold  reserve  of  manner,  '^  Ronald  knows  enough  of  his 
father's  proceedings  to  be  on  his  guard.  If  you  have  nothing 
else  to  fear,  Edward,  I  congratulate  you." 

jMr.  Vivian's  countenance  was  moody,  and  he  made  no 
reply,  f 

Bertha  gathered  her  shawl  around  her.  "  My  mother  will 
be  surprised  at  my  being  out  so  late.  What  time  shall  I  see 
you,  to-morrow,  Edward  ?" 

Mr.  Lester  answered, — "  He  will  be  here  to  breakfast.  My 
study  will  be  at  his  service,  and  at  yours,  all  the  morning.  In 
the  afternoon  I  will  myself  drive  him  into  Cleve,  and  see  him 
fairly  on  his  journey.     Starting  so  late,  he  will  not  reach  Lon- 


OLEVE    HALL.  185 

dOQ  till  the  next  day;  but  tliat  will  be  better  tlian  any  very 
rapid  movement,  Avliich  might  excite  observation." 

"Thank  you.  Then  to-morrow,  Edward" — she  offered 
him  her  hand,  and  he  took  it  mechanically,  but  turned  to  Mr. 
Lester : — 

''  Must  I  be  denied  the  sight  of  my  children  ?  May  I  n(;t 
Bay  one  word  to  Clement  ?" 

"  You  can  answer  your  own  question,  my  dear  Vivian.  Do 
you  think  it  safe  ?" 

"  Clement  could  not  possibly  be  trusted  to  keep  your  conn  ■ 
Bel,"  observed  Bertha. 

Mr.  Vivian  dropped  her  hand  coldly,  but  something  seemed 
to  reproach  him  for  it,  and  he  spoke  kindly :  "  Good-night, 
Bertha,  and  a  father's  blessing  for  your  care  of  his  children." 

Bertha  was  touched  and  softened.  "  Good-night,  Edward. 
If  I  don't  think  your  children  perfect,  it  is  not  from  any  want 
of  love  for  them." 

She  hurried  from  the  room.  Mr.  Lester  folllowed  her. 
"I  must  walk  with  you  across  the  garden.  Miss  Campbell;" 
and  he  offered  his  arm,  which  she  took  silently.  Mr.  Lester 
felt  that  she  trembled.  "  This  has  been  a  most  trying,  excit- 
ing day,"  he  said.  ''I  would,  if  I  could,  have  spared  you  the 
discovery  of  to-night;  but  I  doubted  what  to-morrow  might 
bring,  and  feared  that  Vivian  might  be  obliged  to  go  without 
seeing  you." 

''It  was  no  discovery,"  replied  Bertha.  "I  was  certain 
before, — that  is,  nearly.  Oh  !  Mr.  Lester,  it  seems  such  a 
dream  !" 

"  Yes."     He  seemed  considering  what  to  add. 

''lie  is  not  altered,"  continued  Bertha;  then,  in  a  lovver 
tone,  she  added  :  "  I  had  hoped  he  m-ight  be." 

"  He  is  altered,  I  trust,"  observed  Mr.  Lester.  "  He  looks 
at  things  very  differently  from  what  he  did." 

"  He  cannot  bear  truth,"  said  Bertha. 

"  Not  under  some  forms." 

"  Not  under  any  form,  I  fear,"  continued  Bertha  ;  "  at  least 
when  it  is  unpleasant.     In  that,  Clement  is  so  like  him." 

They  had  reached  the  gate  between  the  two  gardens ;  Ber- 
tha was  going  to  cross  the  little  bridge,  but  Mr.  Lester  stopped 
her.      "  May  I  give  you  one  warning?" 

"  As  many  as  you  will ;  I  am  always  grateful  for  theiii 
from  you." 


18G  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  It  can  never  bo  rig-lit  to  say  what  wo  don't  think ;  but  ia 
it  always  necessary  to  say  what  wc  tlo  ?" 

«  You  mean  about  the  children  ?" 

"Yes,  I  fear  you  have  pained  him,  and  he  is  already  suf- 
fering greatly." 

"1  am  very  sorry;  I  meant  no  harm.  But  he  must  know 
it  in  time." 

"  In  time,  yes  ;  but  not  at  this  time ;  or  at  least  not  with- 
out some  softening  words." 

The  change  in  Bertha's  voice  showed  her  vexation.  ''  I 
am  always  doing  wrong,"  she  said ;   "  how  can  I  help  it  ?'' 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  had  put  yourself  in  his  place,  you  might 
have  understood." 

Silence  followed  till  they  reached  the  door  of  the  Lodge. 
Then  as  Bertha  rang  the  "bell,  and  wished  Mr.  Lester  good- 
night, she  said  :  "  You  may  be  right,  but  I  cannot  speak  in  a 
way  which  I  don't  feel." 


CHAPTER  XXIL 


MR.  LESTER  returned  to  find  his  study  empty.  Mr.  Vi- 
vian was  gone.  That  impulsive,  irritable  nature  which 
had  led  him  into  so  much  evil  in  earlier  years,  was,  as  Bertha 
had  said,  in  some  measure,  unchanged.  Still,  if  thwarted,  he 
was,  for  a  season,  moody;  if  forced  to  listen  to  unpleasing 
truths,  he  was  disheartened.  The  child  was  father  of  the 
man,  and  the  faults  which  had  grown  up  unchecked  till  he  was 
four-and-twcnty,  would  yet  too  often  be  his  tyrant  at  two-and- 
forty.  He  wandered  forth  now,  desolate  and  dispirited  to  a 
degree  greater  than  even  his  situation  might  occasion.  He 
had  gone  to  the  Parsonage,  excited,  sanguine,  longing  and 
hoping  for  sympathy;  but  he  had  been  disappointed.  He  felt 
as  if  he  had  been  repelled,  and  by  one  to  whom  he  ought  to 
have  been  especially  dear.  The  sister  of  her  for  whose  sake 
he  had  sacrificed  home,  fortune,  all  that  could  render  life  pre- 
cious. If  Bertha  had  educated  his  children  to  be  what  she 
was  herself,  there  could  be  but  little  union  between  them  ;  and 
ae  might  now  be  wearing  away  his  life  in  a  distant  land  with 


CLEVE   HALL.  187 

IS  mucli  prospect  of  happiness  as  lie  could  hope  for  in  a  resto- 
ration to  his  own  country. 

Very  unreasonable,  perhaps,  such  thoughts  might  seem  at 
such  a  time ;  but  whatever  may  be  the  romance,  or  poetry,  or 
even  clanger  of  our  position,  we  are  still,  except  at  the  very 
moment  of  excitement,  subject  to  the  every  day  impressions, 
which,  for  the  most  part,  make  up  our  existence. 

The  prejudiced,  unbalanced  tone  of  Bertha's  mind,  which 
stopped  the  current  of  her  natural  sympathies,  had  thrown 
her  brother-in-law  from  her  at  the  very  moment  when  it  was 
most  necessary  that  he  should  be  drawn  towards  her. 

And  Edward  Vivian  could  not  be  what  Mr.  Lester  was — 
impartial.  He  knew  little  of  Bertha's  character,  except  from 
letters ;  and  those  had  been  generally  kind,  but  formal.  He 
did  not  doubt  her  right  principle,  but  he  did  her  spirit  of  self- 
devotion  ]  and  with  the  impatience  natural  to  him,  which 
made  him  chafe  against  every  impediment  to  his  wishes,  he 
fancied  that  he  was  about  to  place  himself  in  the  power  of  one 
v?ho  looked  coldly  upon  his  interests,  cared  little  for  his  chil- 
dren, and  would  allow  him  to  linger  week  after  week  in  exile, 
whilst  waiting  for  the  opportunities  which  a  hearty  determina- 
tion would  at  once  have  found. 

It  was  a  grievous  injustice  to  Bertha,  whose  chief  thought 
was  to  see  him  restored  to  his  inheritance,  and  her  one  object 
that  his  children  should  be  educated  to  be  an  honor  and  com- 
fort to  him.  But  the  thought  and  the  object  were  the  results 
of  duty  rather  than  affection,  and  with  this  Mr.  Vivian's  sus- 
ceptible feelings  could  not  be  satisfied. 

He  lingered  on  his  way,  for  motion  was  soothing  to  his 
chafed  spirit;  and  a  thousand  busy  thoughts  were  passing 
through  his  brain.  Why  should  he  have  returned  to  England  ? 
"Why  strive  for  that  which,  ever  as  he  drew  near,  receded  from 
his  grasp  ?  The  hope  of  restoration,  how  bright  and  dazzling 
had  it  seemed  when  viewed  across  the  distance  of  the  far 
ocean  !  Now,  in  his  native  village,  within  sight  of  his  father's 
Hall,  wi'^^hin  reach  of  his  sister's  voice,  and  the  influence  of 
his  friend's  counsel,  it  was  dwindling,  fading,  till  nothing 
fceemed  left  but  solitude,  comfortless  and  dreary;  with  cold- 
ness where  he  had  expected  warmth,  prudence  where  he  had 
looked  for  energy. 

It  might  have  been  an  unreasonable,  an  unthankful  feeling, 
that  rose  up  in  the  heart  of  the  weary  exile,  for,  alas  !  sorrow 
tends  to  exaggerate  our  faults,  as  well  as  to  strengthen  our 


1)^8  CLEVE    HALL. 

virtues;  but  it  was  Bertha's  work — Ikrtha,  the  uiis^elfish,  tlie 
pure-niiiidcd,  the  devoted — her  Avork,  because  she  had  never 
yet  learnt  to  heal  the  wounds  of  truth  by  the  oil  of  sympathy. 

It  was  a  beautiful  starlij^-ht  evening,  and  the  moon,  though 
not  full,  gleamed  clear  in  the  cloudless  heavens,  and  brought 
out  every  near  object  distinctly.  The  path  through  the  village 
was  the  nearest  to  the  Farm,  and  Mr.  Vivian  pursued  it  with- 
out thought,  or  rather  with  that  engrossing  thought  which 
blinds  us  to  the  external  world.  He  did  not  see  the  figure  of 
a  man  standing  below  the  porch  of  the  first  cottage  which  ho 
passed ;  neither  did  he  hear  the  footsteps  which  slowly  and 
cautiously  followed  his.  He  went  on,  with  his  usual  rapid, 
irregular  pace,  every  now  and  then  pausing,  as  some  fresh  idea 
struck  him,  and  occasionally  raising  his  arm  high  in  the  air, 
following  out  in  action  the  feelings  either  of  hope  or  des]xur 
which  were  at  the  moment  paramount  in  his  breast.  The 
figure  which  followed  him  kept  at  a  certain  distance,  stopped 
when  he  stopped,  advanced  when  he  advanced,  still  keeping  in 
the  shade,  or,  when  obliged  to  emerge  into  the  light,  hurrying 
on,  and  then  delaying,  evidently  with  the  wish  not  to  approach 
too  near. 

The  upper  and  open  part  of  the  village  was  passed,  and 
they  entered  the  ravine.  The  shadows  there  were  deeper,  the 
light  glanced  through  the  foliage  of  the  trees  more  stealthily. 
Occasionally  the  barking  of  a  dog  broke  the  stillness,  but,  for 
the  most  part,  all  was  silent  save  the  quick  dashing  murmur 
of  the  brook,  tossing  its  way,  over  rocks  and  pebbles,  to  the 
ocean. 

Mr.  Vivian  quickened  his  pace ;  he  seemed  to  feel  the 
chilliness  of  the  evening  air,  and  presently  he  stopped  to  button 
his  coat  more  closely  round  him.  He  was  opposite  to  a  cottage, 
standing  high  vipon  the  bank,  the  only  one  in  which  a  light 
still  gleamed  below.  The  door  was  open,  and  a  man  was 
standing  on  the  threshold,  his  form  clearly  defined  by  the 
brightness  of  the  light  behind  him.  As  Mr.  Vivian  passed, 
a  sharp,  shrill,  and  very  peculiar  whistle  was  heard.  It  must 
have  been  an  instinct,  certainly  it  was  not  fear,  which  induced 
Mr.  Vivian  to  quicken  his  step,  keeping  close  against  the 
garden-wall,  so  that  he  might  not  be  perceived.  The  figure 
behind  also  crept  back  further  into  the  shade.  Mr.  Vivian 
was  out  of  sight ;  the  whistle  was  heard  again,  and  answered, 
and  Goif,  the  fisherman,  stealing  out  of  his  cottage,  met  llonald 


CLEVE    HALL.  180 

Vivian  at  tlie  foot  of  tlio  rougli  flight  of  steps  wliicli  gave 
admittaiice  to  tlie  garden  from  the  road. 

"  I  saw  you,  youngster.  Why  didn't  you  answer  ?  I  thought 
you  had  given  me  the  slip!"  was  the  insolent  greeting;  tc 
which  Ronald  replied  by  striding  over  the  little  stile,  and  lead- 
ing the  way  up  to  the  cottage  door,  where  he  placed  himself 
BO  as  to  intercept  the  view  of  the  road. 

Goff  followed  impatiently.  "  Twenty  steps,  where  one 
would  do !"  he  muttered  to  himself,  and  then  added  aloud, 
"  You've  no  need  to  go  so  far  to  learn  your  duty." 

"  ]My  father  bade  me  come  to  hear  the  result  of  your  in- 
quiry," said  Ronald  haughtily.  "  He  spoke  mysteries,  so  do 
you,  but  I  am  used  to  them.  Only  let  me  hear  what  you  would 
say  quickly." 

''  The  Captain's  been  out  all  day,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,  at  Cleve.  He  has  only  just  returned.  If  the  in- 
quiiy  was  not  satisfactory,  I  was  to  say  that  he  expected  you 
to-night  at  the  Grange." 

''  High  and  mighty !  but  he'll  learn  diiferently  some  day. 
You  passed  no  one  on  the  road,  eh,  Ronald  ?" 

"  I  came  by  the  back  lane  till  I  was  in  the  village,  and 
there  I  saw  a  pedlar  man  at  the  door  of  a  public-house.  Is 
that  part  of  your  mystery  ?" 

"  The  parson  went  home  an  hour  since,"  said  Goff,  care- 
lessly, "  and  the  man  at  the  Farm,  Bruce  they  call  him,  with 
him.  He'd  be  back  about  this  time.  I've  a  notion  he's  friends 
v.'ith  the  Preventives;  so  we'd  best  not  meet  him." 

"  Perhaps  so;  what  message  am  I  to  take  to  my  father  ?" 

Instead  of  answering,  Goff  went  again  down  the  flight  of 
steps,  and  looked  up  and  down  the  road.  "I  thought  I  heard 
a  tramp ;  and  it's  time  to  be  on  our  watch  for  those  Preventive 
fellows." 

"  My  father  is  gone  to  the  Point,  and  he  bade  me  follow 
him ;  what  message  am  I  to  take  him  ?"  repeated  Ronald. 

"  Tell  him  I've  an  inkling  I  was  right  as  to  the  cargo,  but 
the  craft  was  too  far  off  to  be  searched.  I  may  know  more 
before  to-morrow.     Your  father  is  at  the  Point,  you  say  ?" 

"  He  expects  his  vessel  in,"  replied  Ronald. 

"  I  doubt  whether  they'll  try  the  lauding  to-night ;  the  tide 
doesn't  serve." 

''  He  will  be  back  at  the  Grange  soon,  then,"  said  Ronald; 
"and  is  ho  to  see  you  there?" 

"Uraph!  that's  as  maybe.     Say  I've  business  at  home, 


inO  CLEVE    JIALL. 

both  fur  hiin  and  for  me.     If  he  doesn't  hear  to-ni<;lit.  lio  will 
ill  the  morniiiijj.    And  now,  my  young  scamp,  you  may  depart." 

He  went  down  some  of  the  steps,  bockoiiing  tollonald  to 
follow.  But  one  bound,  as  it  seemed,  had  brought  Konald  to 
tlie  stile.  lie  vaulted  across  it,  hallued  a  hasty  ''  Good-night" 
to  Goif,  and  ran  with  his  full  speed,  taking  short  cuts  and  by- 
paths, in  the  direction  which  Mr.  Vivian  had  pursued,  whilst 
Goff  seated  himself  on  the  garden-wall,  and  occupied  himself 
with  a  pipe. 

The  end  of  the  ravine  was  readied ;  Mr.  Vivian  was  about 
to  emerge  from  it  into  the  open  space  in  front  of  tlie  Farm. 
The  night  was  so  calm,  the  effect  of  his  walk  so  soothing,  that 
he  was  doubtful  whether  to  stop  or  proceed  further,  aiid  his 
step  lingered  as  he  gazed  upon  the  old  building,  standing  gray 
and  ghost-like  in  the  moonshine,  and  revolved  in  his  mind  the 
changes  and  sorrows  associated  with  it. 

"  If  Mr.  Vivian  is  wise,  he  will  rest  when  others  rest," 
was  uttered  in  a  low,  deep  voice,  by  some  one  at  his  side.  lie 
started,  scarcely  conscious  at  the  first  moment  that  he  had 
been  addressed  by  his  true  name ;  yet  his  hand  grasped  his 
stick  with  the  quick  perception  of  possible  danger,  and  he 
turned  sharply  round  with  an  indignant  ejaculation. 

''  Those  who  betray  their  own  secrets  have  no  right  to  be 
angry  when  they  are  reminded  of  it,"  continued  Ronald. 

"  Ronald  Vivian  !  Speak  plainly,  young  fellow.  Let  me 
hear  your  object." 

"  That  you  should  know  I  know  you,"  said  Ronald,  boldly. 
"We  meet  then  upon  equal  ground." 

"John  Vivian's  son  can  never  stand  upon  equal  ground 
with  me,"  was  the  reply.  "  You  have  aided  me  in  danger, 
and  I  thank  you  for  it,  heartily.  Name  your  recompense; 
you  shall  have  it.  For  my  secret — do  with  it  as  you  will;  I 
am  indifferent  to  it."  Yet  as  he  spoke,  Mr.  Vivian's  eye 
glanced  quickly  round,  fearing,  apparently,  that  the  boy's 
approach  was  to  be  followed  by  that  of  others,  whom  he  might 
have  more  cause  to  dread. 

"  Thanks  !  Recompense  !  Mr.  Vivian,  let  me  tell  you " 

and  Ronald  drew  nearer,  and  his  voice  was  harsh  and  hesi- 
tating. But  suddenly  it  changed,  as  he  muttered,  "  Fool  that 
I  am  !  to  think  he  would  understand  !" 

_  '_'  Say   to  your  father,  if  he    has    sent  you,"    began   Mr. 
Vivian 

Ronald  interrupted  him.     "  I  do  not  come  from  my  father 


CLEVE    HALL.  191 

I  have  tliat  to  say  which  may  be  for  your  good ;  but  first,  wo 
iiiiist  uuderstand  each  other.  Your  thauks,  I  do  not  desire 
them ;  your  reward,  I  would  not  accept  it,  if  it  were  the 
wealth  of  the  Indies  you  could  oifer  me.  Now,  then,  will 
you  hear  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  say  what  you  will,  but  shortly." 

"  And  not  here,"  said  Houald.  He  threw  back  the  wickct- 
cate,  entered  the  Farm  Court,  and  tried  the  door  into  the  gar- 
den, which  was  bolted. 

Mr.  Vivian  touched  his  arm.  ''  If  we  are  to  speak  upon 
private  matters,  there  is  no  place  so  secure  as  my  own  apart- 
ment." 

"  I  am  used  to  the  free  air,"  replied  Ronald.  ''  I  can 
speak  better  in  it."  He  drew  back  the  bolt.  ^'  Now,  then, 
we  are  safe,"  and  carefully  refastening  the  door  again,  on  the 
inside,  he  turned  into  the  broad  turf  walk  which  divided  the 
garden  iuto  two  equal  parts. 

"  Your  father  has  doubtless  learut  that  I  am  here,"  said 
Mr.  Yivian. 

"I  came  on  my  own  account;  my  fixther "     Ronald 

paused,  and  then  went  on  impetuously.  "  You  don't  trust 
me.  I  am  used  to  that.  God  help  me  to  bear  it.  Mr.  Vivian, 
you  are  my  father's  enemy." 

"  Rather,  your  father  is  mine,"  was  the  answer,  uttered 
more  gently. 

"An  enemy  makes  an  enemy.  You  hate  him;  justly, 
perhaps;  yes,  justly  it  must  be.  You  think,  too,  that  you 
have  cause  to  hate  me  also." 

"  Hate  you,  Ronald  !  I  owe  my  own  life  to  you,  and  to- 
day you  have  aided  in  saving  my  child." 

"  The  new  favor  will  not  wipe  out  the  old  grudge,"  replied 
Ronald.  "  Young  though  I  am,  I  have  seen  too  much  of  the 
world  to  believe  that.  Safety,  both  for  yourself  and  your 
daughter,  would  have  been  more  precious  if  purchased  by  any 
other  means.  Nay,  let  me  speak,"  he  added,  seeing  that  Mr. 
Vivian  was  about  to  interrupt  him.  "I  have  nothing  to  say 
upon  that  subject.  It  is  gone — forgotten.  It  is  of  yourself, 
Mr.  Vivian,  that  I  would  have  you  think.  You  are  my  fa- 
ther's enemy,  and  your  secret  is  in  my  hands.  Upon  what 
terms  think  you  it  is  to  be  kept?" 

"  Upstart !  insolent !"  exclaimed  ^^Ir.  Vivian.  "  Do  you 
think  I  fear  your  father'/" 

"  You  have  cause  to  do  so,"  was  Ronald's  calm  reply. 


1!'2  CLEVE    HALL, 

"Cause!  Yes,  cause  indeed !"  And  the  tone  was  bitter 
ill  its  remorse.  "I  do  fear  hiin,  but  not  as  you  think;  not 
for  the  injury  he  may  have  done  nie  in  former  years,  not  for 
the  evil  he  may  yet  brina;  upon  me  in  this  workl.  I  fear  him 
as  I  fear  the  spirit  of  evil ;  the  demon  that  tempts  man  to  his 
eternal  destruction.  There  is  no  bargain  to  be  made  witli 
such  fear." 

A  look  of  agony  passed  over  Ronald's  face  at  the  last  words. 
He  pressed  his  hands  tightly  together,  and  when  he  spoke,  his 
tone  was  hollow,  in  the  effort  to  repress  his  feelings :  "  Yet 
the  question  is  unanswered.  Upon  what  terms  is  the  secret 
to  be  kept  ?" 

"Upon  no  terms,  Sir;  let  the  whole  world  know  it,  and. 
come  what  may,  I  will  abide  it." 

"  That  may  be  a  hasty  word  long  to  be  repented,"  replied 
lion  aid. 

''Never  to  be  repented.  There  must  be  war;  ay,  for 
ever,  between  John  Vivian  and  myself;  between  his  children 
and  my  children.     Y^'oung  fellow,  you  have  your  answer." 

"I  have  not  my  answer,"  replied  llonald.  "  Mr.  Vivian, 
you  think  you  are  speaking  to  a  boy,  and  you  are  right.  A 
boy  I  am  in  years,  but  they  have  been  years  in  which  a  man's 
experience  has  been  condensed.  You  cannot  and  shall  not 
turn  from  me  in  this  way.  You  shall  listen  as  to  a  man,  your 
equal,  and  you  shall  grant  me  my  demands  as  to  one  who 
holds  your  fate  in  his  hands,  and  will  never  be  tempted  to 
swerve  from  his  resolve  either  by  threat  of  punishment  or 
hope  of  reward.  Once  more,  upon  what  terms  shall  your 
secret  be  kept  ?" 

He  folded  his  arms,  and  leant  his  back  against  a  tree,  and 
the  pale  gleaming  of  the  moon  showed  a  face,  anxious,  hag- 
gard, yet  immovable.  Mr.  Vivian  was  touched  by  its  expres- 
sion, whilst  his  spirit  revolted  from  the  proud  words  which  he 
had  just  heard.  "  You  are  a  strange  fellow,  Ronald,"  he  said 
more  lightly.  "  Do  you  think  that  a  man  who  has  reached 
my  age,  and  has  the  happiness  of  so  many  depending  upon 
him,  would  have  placed  himself  in  a  situation  which  a  hasty 
word  of  his  own,  and  the  wilfulness  of  a  boy  like  yourself, 
might  render  really  perilous  ?  You  delude  yourself.  It  has 
been  my  will  for  purposes  of  my  own  to  remain  for  a  time 
concealed ;  but  the  truth  must,  before  long,  come  forth.  Your 
betrayal  of  it,  or  that  of  your  father,  can  have  but  little  effect 
jj>on  my  fortunes." 


CLEVE    HALL.  193 

''  Trust  to  tliat  hope  if  you  will,"  replied  Ronald  :  "  believe 
tliat  the  mau  whom  you  injured  in  the  point  nearest  to  his 
heart  will  suffer  his  revenge  to  die ;  trust  that  he  will  allow 
you  to  return,  and  rake  up  the  ashes  of  past  deeds,  and  search 
out  the  offences  which,  it  may  be,  are  hidden  amongst  them  ; 
but,  remember,  it  is  at  your  own  peril,  against  the  warning  of 
one  who  knows  that  life  and  death  ai-e  at  this  moment  trem- 
bling in  the  balance  of  your  decision." 

Mr.  Vivian  started.  "  Ha  ?  Are  you  come  to  threaten  me  ? 
T  might  have  known  the  spirit  of  John  Vivian  hidden  under 
the  form  of  his  son."     And  he  laughed  scornfully. 

"  I  bear  with  your  injustice — with  your  suspicions,  Mr. 
Vivian.  Grod  knows,  I  feel  too  truly  how  they  have  been  de- 
served. Doubt  me  if  you  will,  yet  still  listen  to  me.  One 
word  from  me,  and  the  thought  which  is  now  but  a  slumbering 
ember,  will  be  kindled  into  a  flame,  and  the  most  hidden  re- 
cesses of  English  ground  will  not  insure  your  safety." 

"  You  want  money,  young  man;  you  shall  have  it,  so  fiir 
as  my  poverty  will  admit ;  but  not  to  purchase  secrecy  and 
safety.     There  is  a  God  above,  and  He  will  protect  me." 

"Money!"  Ronald's  deep  voice  sounded  as  the  burst  of 
thunder  on  the  clear  air.  But  the  check  followed  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  the  tones  of  a  child  could  not  have  been  more  gentle 
than  his  as  he  added  :  "  M  ■.  Vivian,  I  want  not  money,  but 
pardon."  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  a  bitter 
groan  burst  from  him.  Then  resuming  his  former  attitude, 
and  speaking  almost  coldly,  he  continued  :  "  But  for  my  aid 
you  might  have  perished  in  the  storm,  your  child  might  have 
been  dashed  from  the  heights  of  the  Croome.  But  for  my 
secrecy  now,  danger,  near  and  pressing,  little  though  you  may 
believe  it,  must  haunt  your  steps.  Is  it  too  much  to  ask  for- 
giveness in  return  for  life  ?" 

"  Forgiveness,  Ronald  !  you  speak  riddles  ;  you  have  never 
offended  me." 

"  My  father  has.  He  has  injured  you.  His  injuries  may, 
they  jnust,  some  day  come  to  light :  yes,  and  by  my  insti-u- 
moiitality;"  and  again  he  hid  his  face  and  shuddered.  "  IMr. 
A'ivian,  when  that  day  shall  come,  will  you  not  remember  that 
Ronald  was  your  friend  in  the  hour  of  peril? — that  for  your 
t-ake  he  risked  the  hastening  of  that  fearful  account  which  we 
are  told  we  are  all  to  give  before  God  ?" 

"Remember!"  Mr.  Vivian  grasped  his  hand.     "Ronald, 
iio  surely  will  I  remember  your  good  deeds,  as  I  pray  that  God 
9 


194  CLEVE    HALL. 

in  Ilis  mercy  may  forj:!;et  my  evil  ones.  But  even  yet  I  can- 
not  sec  your  purpose." 

"  It  may  be  a  sad  history,  yet  I  will  beg  you  to  listen  to 
it,"  replied  llonald.  "  Mr,  Vivian,  I  have  not  now  for  the 
first  time  learnt  that  I  was  the  son  of  a  man  wliom  the  world 
terms  reprobate.  I  discovered  it  in  my  childhood,  when  I 
said  my  prayers  at  my  mother's  knee,  stealthily,  because  my 
father  would  interrupt  them ;  I  saw  it  in  my  mother's  tears, 
when  he  left  her  to  join  in  riot  and  intemperance.  I  heard 
it  from  her  own  lips  as  she  lay  on  her  deathbed,  and  charged 
me  never  to  follow  his  evil  courses,  and  yet,  if  possible,  never 
to  forsake  him.  It  was  the  one  burning  thought  which  made 
me  what  I  have  been, — reckless  and  desperate.  I  was  too 
young  then  to  profit  by  counsel ;  perhaps  even  if  I  had  been 
older,  I  should  have  been  too  weak,  and  I  did  follow  my  father 
into  scenes  and  society  which  I  have  since  learnt  to  shrink 
from  with  horror.  There  I  might  have  been  at  this  moment ; 
— God  only  knows  why  I  am  not  there :  but  through  it  all, 
even  in  my  worst  moments,  the  warnings  of  one  friend  have 
recalled  me  to  better  things,  reminding  me  of  days  of  inno- 
cence, carrying  me  back  to  my  mother's  deathbed.  If  the 
past  can  ever  be  redeemed,  it  will  be  through  the  teaching  of 
my  mother's  only  friend,  Miss  Campbell.  I  owe  everything 
to  her,  and  I  will  repay  the  debt,  ;ost  what  it  may." 

"  And  Miss  Campbell,  then,  has  told  you  our  family  his- 
tory ?" 

"  In  part.  She  has  put  the  possibility  of  benefiting  you 
within  my  reach,  at  the  expense  of  my  father's  honor,  and 
perhaps  safety."  He  spoke  with  an  accent  of  bitterness,  and 
Mr.  Vivian  said,  hastily,  "  Bertha  Campbell  has  been  incon- 
siderate ;   she  never  could  expect  such  a  sacrifice." 

"  JMiss  Campbell  did  not  know  what  she  exacted,"  replied 
Ronald.  "  I  did  not  know  what  I  promised,  until  I  thought 
over  my  promise  ;  but  if  I  had  known,  I  could  not  have  drawn 
back.  Gratitude  and  honor  mast  make  me  labor  to  discover 
the  truth;  justice  would  require  me  to  make  it  known.  I  do 
not,  for  a  moment,  blame  jMiss  Campbell ;  neither  do  I  repent 
for  myself.  I  ask  only  that  the  good  deed  which  I  may  be 
enabled  to  do  for  you,  may  not  be  turned  into  the  agony  of  re- 
morse, by  bringing  destruction  upon  my  father." 

*'  It  never  could  be,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vivian.  "  I  would 
rather  die  myself,  and  see  my  children  beggars,  than  I  would 
urge  you  to  act  against  your  father." 


CLEVE   HALL.  195 

"  When  I  was  told  tlie  history,  the  deed  was  done,"  replied 
Ronald,  mournfully.  "  I  needed  no  urging  then.  I  can  never 
rest  till  restitution  has  been  made." 

"  Leave  it,  leave  it,"  replied  Mr.  Vivian,  hastily ;  "  forget 
that  you  have  been  asked.  A  son  to  turn  against  his  father ! 
— impossible  !" 

"  And  a  family  to  be  sacrificed,  when  one  word  might  re- 
store to  them  a  lost  inheritance  ! — equally  impossible  !"  replied 
Ronald. 

''  Bertha  Campbell  has  unintentionally  deceived  /ou,  Ro- 
nald," said  Mr.  Vivian.  "■  She  has  an  idea  that  something 
which  your  father  said  or  did  was  the  cause  of  my  exile ;  but 
she  is  mistaken.  The  offences  were  my  own ;  they  may  have 
been  exaggerated ;  my  father's  anger  may  have  been  increased 
by  misrepresentation  ;  but  the  main  facts  must  have  been  true, 
and  for  them  I  only  am  answerable.  Are  you  not  satisfied  by 
my  assurance?"  he  added,  as  Ronald  continued  silent. 

Still  there  was  a  pause.     Mr.  Vivian  repeated  the  question. 

Ronald  seized  his  hand.  *'  Mr.  Vivian,  you  are  a  man  of 
honor ;  ask  me  no  more  questions.  Only,  if  you  value  the 
life  which  through  my  means  was  restored  to  you,  promise  me 
here,  as  in  the  presence  of  God,  that  whatever  may  hereafter 
be  discovered  and  revealed  by  me,  shall  only  so  far  be  used  as 
I  shall  permit,  and  never  be  made  known  by  you  to  any  other 
person,  except  by  my  permission." 

*'  I  promise ;  solemnly,  faithfully." 

Ronald  shook  his  hand  eagerly.  "  Honor  for  life  !  Mr. 
Vivian,  there  is  now  no  obligation  ;  I  thank  you  from  my 
heart."     His  tone  was  quite  changed,  it  was  almost  hopeful. 

]Mr.  Vivian  turned  to  go  into  the  house.  ''  If  you  are 
satisfied,  we  must  part  now,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  satisfied  about  myself,  not  about  you.  IMr.  Vivian, 
this  place  is  not  safe  for  you  !" 

"■  I  am  going  to  leave  it." 

''  ^Yhen  ?  Another  day's  delay  may  be  of  infinite  impori- 
ance." 

"I  go  to-morrow  to " 

"  Do  not  tell  me  where.  Let  me  know  nothing  of  you  that 
I  can  avoid.  Whatever  must  be  known,  Miss  Campbell  will 
tell  me." 

"  I  do  not  see  the  need  of  so  much  mystery,"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Vivian,  rather  haughtily.      "I  fear  no  man." 

''  Yet  there  may  not  be,  thci'cfore,  the  less  cause  for  fear. 


100  CLEVE   UALL. 

Ymi  would  be  safe  from  my  father;  you  are  not  safe  froai  tiia 
fellow,  Goff." 

"  Rascal  ! — he  is  too  contemptible  to  dread." 

"  Mr.  Lester  will  give  you  his  opinion  upon  that  point," 
replied  Ronald.  "  I  cannot  expect  you  to  take  mine.  But 
you  are  going,  and  that  is  all  I  ask." 

They  walked  a  few  paces  together,  without  speaking;  but 
when  they  reached  the  garden-door,  Mi".  Vivian  grasped 
Ronald's  hand,  and  said,  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  suppressed 
feeling,  "  Ronald,  you  are  a  noble  fellow.  Let  my  own  boy 
be  but  like  you,  and  I  shall  be  contented." 

He  was  detained. 

"  Never  !  never  I  Oh  God  !  save  him  from  it !  Innocence  ! 
]Mr.  Vivian,  the  riches  of  the  universe  would  I  give  for  iuno- 


CHAPTER  XXin. 


A  BRIGHT  fire  was  blazing  on  the  hearth  in  Mildred  Vi- 
vian's apartment,  an  old-fashioned  Christmas  fire,  though 
it  was  only  the  beginning  of  December, — logs  of  wood  kindling 
and  inspiriting  the  coals ;  and  Mildred's  sofa  was  drawn  near 
it,  and  her  little  work-table  was  placed  by  her  side ;  and,  re- 
clining in  a  low  and  very  luxurious  chair  on  the  other  side, 
Ella  was  reading  to  her  aloud.  They  looked  very  comfortable, 
all  the  more  so  because  snow  was  falling,  and  the  sky  heavy 
with  gray  masses  of  clouds,  which  threatened  to  prevent  any- 
thing like  going  out  all  day. 

"  Grandpapa  has  not  been  in  this  morning,"  said  Ella,  as 
she  laid  down  the  first  volume  of  the  book,  and  looked  rouiid 
the  room  for  the  second. 

"  He  is  busy  with  the  bailiff,  I  think,"  said  Mildred. 
''  There  are  parish  matters  and  magistrate's  business  to  attend 
to.     He  never  leads  an  idle  life." 

"  No,"  replied  Ella;  "  it  is  strange,  Aunt  Mildi'ed,  i.sn't  it, 
what  people  find  to  interest  them  in  life  ?" 

"  Parish  matters  and  magistrate's  business  being  vciy  un- 
interesting to  you,  I  suppose,"  said  Mildred,  laughing. 

**  They  are  so  low,"  replied  Ella. 


CLEVE    HALL.  197 

"  I  clon't  know  what  tlie  world  would  do  without  thoui, 
niouiih,"  said  Mildred.  "  And  I  really  don't  see  why  they 
are  to  be  called  low." 

''Oh,  jaecause  they  don't  serve  any  purpose;  they  don't 
exalt  one's  mind.  You  know,  Aunt  Mildred,  parish  matters 
are  always  about  gruel  and  blankets  ;  and  magistrate's  matters 
about  poaching." 

"  All  very  necessary,  Ella." 

"  Oh  yes,  necessary,  but  I  hate  necessities ;  now  don't 
you  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  exactly  that  I  do.  I  am  afraid  such  a  good- 
for-nothing  person  as  I  am  in  the  way  of  health,  must  always 
(hink  a  good  deal  of  them.  But  I  do  know  what  you  mean, 
Ella,  and  I  feel  with  you  in  a  certain  way.  One  wouldn't  like 
to  live  upon  necessaries." 

"  No ;"  Ella's  face  brightened  at  being  understood, — "  and 
that  is  what  some  people  do;  and  what  I  dread  doing,  and, 
Aunt  iMildred,  it  is  what  I  am  sure  I  shall  do,  if  I  live  at 
Encombe  much  longer." 

"  Six  months'  trial  is  a  very  short  one." 

"  Enough  for  me,"  said  Ella,  yawning.  "  If  it  weren't  for 
coming  here  sometimes,  I  shouldn't  have  an  idea  left.  But 
you  flo  let  one  rhapsodize  a  little." 

IMildred's  face  was  rather  grave. 

"  Now,  Aunt  Mildred,  that  is  an  expression  I  don't  like," 
continued  Ella ;  "  it  always  seems  as  if  there  was  something 
hidden  behind  it,  and  I  choose  to  know  all.  Now,  confess, 
what  were  you  thinking  of?"  she  added,  playfully. 

"  Merely  whether  rhapsodizing,  as  you  call  it,  was  a  good 
or  a  bad  thing." 

"Oh,  good;  infinitely  good!  It  encourages  enthusiasm, 
and  enthusiasm  leads  to  heroism,  and  heroism  to — why,  all 
the  noble  things  which  have  been  done  in  the  world  are  owing 
to  heroism." 

"Most  true;  you  had  better  write  a  book  upon  it  some 
day." 

"You  are  laughing  at  me;  but  I  don't  see  why  you 
should ;"  and  Ella,  rather  petulantly,  took  up  some  work. 

"  Not  at  all  laughing,  dear  Ella;  quite  the  reverse." 

"  Then  crying ;  I  would  rather  you  should  do  that  than 
laugh.     I  hate  ridicule  ;  it  chills  me." 

"Dear  Ella,  you  know  1  never  ridicule  any  one — inten- 


108  CLEVE  HALL. 

tionally,  that  is.     IMy  words  iimy  certainly  be  twisted  In  ;i 


wron<r  meaninj;." 

"Then  why  did  you  say  I  had  better  write  a  book  iipoi. 
hcroisin  ?     Of  course  that  means,  I  had  better  not." 

"  Of  course  it  does.  Perhaps  I  said  it  because  "I  thought 
persons  never  write  well  upon  subjects  which  they  don't  under- 
stand, and  that  no  one  can  understand  heroism  who  doesn't 
practise  it." 

"  There  is  little  enough  opportunity  for  practising  it  at 
Encombe,"  observed  Ella. 

"  One  might  think  so  at  first  sight,  but  you  have  had  occa- 
sions more  frequently  than  most  people." 

"  I  don't  quite  see  when.  There  have  been  no  adventures, 
only  the  wreck,  which  I  had  nothing  to  do  with,  and  the 
Croome;  yes,  that  was  terrible!"  and  Ella  became  much 
graver  in  manner;  "but  the  heroism  belonged  to  llonald  and 
iMr.  Bruce." 

"  I  think  yon  were  something  of  a  heroine,  Ella.  If  you 
had  lost  your  presence  of  mind  there  would  have  been  no 
hope." 

"One  is  inspired,  I  suppose,  at  such  times,"  said  Ella. 
"  I  could  never  have  supposed  it  possible  to  bear  up  as  I  did. 
But  to  be  a  heroine  for  one  day  is  nothing.  What  I  wish  is 
to  be  one  all  my  life,  and  in  these  times  there  is  nothing  to 
give  one  the  opportunity.  Oh  for  the  days  of  chivalry  and 
the  Crusaders !" 

"  When  ladies  lived  shut  up  within  walls,  and  occupied 
themselves  in  working  tapestry  with  their  maids,  every  now 
and  then  relieving  their  tediousness  by  taking  a  stroll  upon 
the  battlements,  to  see  if  their  lords  were  coming." 

"  You  are  so  absurd.  Aunt  Mildred.  Who  ever  thinks  of 
beautiful  ladies  in  the  olden  times  taking  a  stroll  ?" 

"  But  they  did  stroll,  Ella,  unless,  as  I  suppose  sometimes 
happened,  they  felt  it  good  for  their  health  to  have  a  good, 
qviick,  constitutional  walk." 

"  I  can't  talk  to  you,"  said  Ella;  "you  always  laugh  about 
knights  and  chivalry." 

"  Quite  the  reverse,  dear  Ella;  I  have  the  greatest  possible 
admiration  for  them.  All  I  ever  regret  is  that  people  .should 
spend  their  time  in  grasping  at  the  shadow,  and  so  lose  the 
Bubstance." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  said  Ella.     "  I 


CLEVE   HALL.  109 

never  could  discover  any  knightly  substance,  as  you  call  it,  in 
these  days." 

''  I  should  scarcely  imagine  you  could,"  replied  Mildred 
quietly. 

Ella  looked  up,  a  little  piqued,  and  answered,  "  But  if 
there  is  any,  I  don't  see  why  I  am  to  be  more  blind  than  the 
rest  of  the  world." 

''  You  are  not  more  blind  than  most  people,"  replied  Mil- 
dred. "  Half  the  persons  you  meet  would  tell  you  that  they 
can  discover  nothing  but  matter-of-faetness  in  the  nineteenth 
century." 

"  Please,  Aunt  Mildred,  don't  talk  mysteries;  you  can't 
think  how  they  tease  me." 

"  The  meaning  of  my  mysteries  may  not  suit  you,  Ella," 
said  Mildred,  gravely. 

''.Perhaps  so,  but  I  should  like  to  know  it." 

"  I  think  that  what  we  are  accustomed  to  call  chivalry  was 
an  earthly  adaptation  of  the  Christian  spirit,  suited  to  rude 
times  and  men  of  half-cultivation,"  said  Mildred;  "that,  in 
fact,  it  was  a  type  of  real  chivalry." 

"  Then,  what  do  you  call  real  chivalry?"  asked  Ella. 

"  The  spirit  of  self-devotion,  self-denial,  courage,  endur- 
ance, perseverance,  not  for  the  praise  of  men  but  the  praise 
of  God." 

Ella  was  silent. 

"  That  does  not  quite  approve  itself  to  your  ideas,  does  it  ?" 
said  Mildred. 

"  It  is  all  very  good,"  replied  Ella,  "  but  I  don't  see  any 
chivalry  in  it." 

"  No ;  and  you  never  will  in  your  present  state  of  mind. 
You  are  a  knight  going  unwillingly  to  the  wars,  and  always 
sighing  for  the  repose  of  his  own  halls  and  the  gentle  glance 
of  his  ladye  love." 

"  That  would  never  have  been  my  case,"  exclaimed  Ella. 
"  I  could  have  fought,  I  know  I  could,  like  a  lion." 

"  Oh,  Ella !  I  wish  you  could  do  so  now."  Mildred's  voice 
was  sad. 

"Dear  iVunt  Mildred,  don't  speak  so;  I  would  think  as 
you  do  if  I  could." 

"  You  can,  Ella,  if  you  will ;  all  of  us  can.  The  thoughts 
would  come  if  you  would  only  act." 

"  Action  ;  that  is  the  difficulty  ;"  and  Ella  sighed. 
"  A  knight  to  sigh  and  .say  action  is  the  difficulty  !" 


200  CLEVE    HALL. 

KUa  blushed.      "  Aunt  Miklrotl,  I  am  not  a  knight." 

"  No,  Ella !  A  Cliristiau  knij^lit  you  can't  be,  boc-auso — 
is  it  very  hard  to  say  it? — you  live  only  for  yourself." 

Ella's  countenance  betrayed  a  monientar}^  annoyance,  but 
she  recovered  herself  quickly,  though  her  tone  was  still  a  littlo 
constrained,  as  she  replied,  "  You  are  rather  severe  in  your 
fondcMinatiou,  Aunt  Mildred." 

"  3Iore  severe  than  is  merited,  nni  I  ?  But  will  you  set  nio 
rii>ht  then,  and  tell  me  whom  you  do  live  for, — Grandmamma  ? 
Aunt  Bertha?  Clement?" 

"Oh!  for  no  one  in  particular;  who  does?  I  am  v<'ry 
fond  of  everybody,  but  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  liviny 
for  them." 

"  But,  Ella,  that  will  not  do  for  chivalry.  The  kni-lits  of 
old  could  never  have  fought  as  they  did  if  they  had  not  had 
some  special  object." 

"  But  you  say  I  am  not  a  knight." 

"  We  come  round  to  the  point  from  which  we  set  off.  I 
don't  think  you  have  the  spirit  of  a  knight  in  you.  I  am 
sure,  indeed,  you  have  not.  No  one  who  is  self-indulgent  can 
have." 

"  You  don't  like  my  sitting  in  easy  chairs,"  said  Ella,  half- 
raisjng  herself. 

"  I  don't  like  it,  because  it  puts  your  mind  into  an  easy 
chair  too,"  replied  Mildred. 

"  No ;  indeed  I  assure  you  I  can  think  twenty  times  as  well 
when  I  am  comfortable." 

"  There  is  a  difference  between  being  comfortable  and  not 
being  uncomfortable,"  said  Mildred.  "People  can't  think 
when  they  have  the  toothache,  but  there  is  a  wide  neutral 
ground  between  that  and  positive  luxui-y." 

"  One's  imagination  works  so  much  better  in  the  pleasant, 
dreamy  state,  which  sofas  and  arm-chairs  put  one  into,"  said 
Ella,  throwing  herself  back  and  laughing.  "  I  do  so  wonder, 
Aunt  IMildrcd,  that  you  wh>)  are  so  fond  of  poetiy  can't  under- 
stand that." 

"  Porhjips  T  can  and  do  understand  it  too  well,"  answered 
Mildred  thoughtfully.  "  But  one  thing  Ella,  I  am  quite  cer- 
tain of,  that  imagination  and  every  other  faculty  will  infallibly 
degenerate  if  it  is  not  kept  alive  by  practice.  If  you  can 
write  good  poetry  when  you  sit  and  dream  all  day  in  your  ann- 
chair,  you  will  write  much  better  if  you  rouse  youi-self  and  do 
a  kind  act  for  a  person  in  need.      I  believe,  myself,  that  one 


CLEVE    HALL.  20 J 

chief  reason  why  we  so  often  see  persons  of  great  powers  of 
iniaprination,  degenerating  and  wi'iting  things  ([•fiite  niiworthj' 
of  their  first  efibrts,  is  that  ♦hey  think  mental  work  everytliing, 
and  so  neglect  to  recrait  their  poor  minds  by  bracing  practical 
duties.  Even  in  an  intellectual  point  of  view,  Ella,  you  see, 
I  object  to  the  arm-chair." 

"Oh,  dear!  so  comfortable;"  and  Ella  sighed,  and  drew 
her  chair  nearer  to  the  fire. 

"  It  seems  very  unfitting  for  me  to  say  it,  I  am  afraid," 
continued  3Iildred,  "  when  I  lie  on  a  sofa  all  day.  But  then, 
Ella,  against  that  perhaps  I  may  put  the  pain  which  God  has 
sent  nie.  I  am  never  quite  free  from  it.  And  in  other  ways 
I  do  tiy  to  practise  what  I  preach ;  at  least  I  hope  so." 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Mildred,  who  could  think  you  self-indulgent  ?" 

"I  was  inclined  to  be  so  once,"  she  replied.  "  When  my 
dear  sister  was  living,  she  took  so  much  from  me  in  the  way 
of  duty,  that  1  often  felt  there  was  no  occasion  for  exertion, 
and  then  I  gave  way.  But  it  has  been  different  of  late  years, 
and  I  have  taught  myself  to  open  the  windows  of  my  mind, 
and  let  in  the  fresh  breezes  from  without,  even  though  now 
and  then  they  are  a  little  chilling." 

Ella  considered  a  little,  still  recHning  at  her  ease.  "  Then, 
Aunt  iMildred,  what  would  you  have  me  do  ?" 

"  What  would  I  not  have  you  do  ?  You  like  plain  speak- 
ing, you  say.  Nothing  that  you  have  done  since  you  came 
here,  at  least  not  in  the  same  spirit." 

"  I  can't  alter  the  spirit, — it  is  that  which  I  am  in  always," 
said  Ella,  rather  moodily. 

"  Y'^et  it  was  to  have  been  different  after  your  fright  npon 
the  Croome." 

*'  I  thoixght  so,  for  a  time,  but  it  went  oif;  that  is  always 
the  case  with  me, — I  can't  help  changing." 

"  Simply  because  you  think  and  don't  act,"  replied  Mildred. 
'  The  notes  which  you  sent  me  the  week  after  your  adventure 
were  full  of  good  resolutions." 

"Oh,  yes;  good  resolutions:  but  what  are  they  worth?  ] 
am  tired  of  them." 

"  So  am  I,"  was  Mildred's  grave  remark. 

Ella  rose  from  her  seat,  and  as  she  knelt  by  Mildred's  side, 
said  :  ''  Please  not.  Aunt  Mildred  :  any  tone  but  that." 

"  Do  you  deserve  any  other,  Ella  ?" 

"No.  I  deserve  nothing,  I  am  \cry  unhappy;"  and  J']l]a 
burst  into  tears. 


202  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  You  were  to  have  taught  the  children  regularly,"  con. 
tinucil  Mildwd,  ''and  you  have  neglected  them  just  as  you 
did  before.  You  were  to  have  been  thoughtful  for  your  grand- 
mamma, and  obedient  to  your  Aunt  Bertha,  and  there  have 
been  nothing  but  complaints.  I  asked  you  to  come  here,  and 
told  you  what  I  wished  you  to  do,  and  you  promised  what  you 
have  not  in  the  smallest  degree  attempted  properly  to  perform. 
You  are  late  at  breakfast  always,  though  your  grand]>a])a 
particularly  wishes  you  to  be  in  time;  when  he  asks  you  to 
walk  with  him,  you  move  reluctantly ;  when  he  desires  you  to 
jrlay,  you  make  excuses;  when  he  recommends  you  books  to 
read,  you  waste  your  time  over  poetry  and  novels.  And  all 
the  while  sighing  for  heroism,  and  the  days  of  chivalry.  Oh, 
Ella,  you  would  have  made  but  a  poor  knight." 

"Aunt  Mildred,  yes;  if  those  days  had  been  like  these. 
But  they  were  different." 

"  No,  Ella,  they  were  the  same, — formed  for  and  by  human 
beings  like  ourselves,  with  the  same  foibles,  the  same  passions 
and  temptations ;  and  what  we  arc  now,  that  we  should  have 
been  then." 

"  Then  I  am  a  poor  knight,"  said  Ella,  faintly  attempting 
to  smile,  "  doomed  to  be  always  defeated." 

"  And  yet  intrusted  with  the  highest  possible  gifts ;  talents 
far  above  the  average,  a  quiet  home,  leisure,  friends " 

"No,  Aunt  Mildred;  begging  your  pardon,  that  is  just 
what  I  have  not;  a  quiet  home,  and  leisure,  and  friends.  I 
am  continually  interrupted,  and  there  is  no  one  that  I  can  talk 
to  as  I  hkc." 

"Ella,  Ella;  if  you  have  the  smallest  value  for  goodness 
or  happiness,  be  honest  with  yourself.  You  allow  the  inter- 
ruptions, and  shut  yourself  up  from  your  friends,  and  then 
turn  your  own  faults  into  excuses." 

"  Indeed ;  it  is  true.  I  never  can  talk  to  Aunt  Bertha. 
She  is  very  good,  I  know ;  but — I  must  say  it,  if  it  is  ever  so 
wrong, — she  is  intensely  disagreeable." 

"  ISo  I  suppose  am  I,"  observed  Mildred  gently. 

"  Oh,  no ;  you  know  I  love  you  dearly,  and  I  would  do 
anything  in  the  world  for  you." 

"  Except  the  trifles  I  ask.  Y'^ou  disobey  me  just  as  you 
do  Aunt  Bertha." 

"  If  you  would  ask  me  great  things,  I  could  do  them.  I 
would  cut  off  my  hand  to  serve  you." 


CLEVE   HALL.  203 

"  But  you  would  not  use  it  to  copy  a  piece  of  music 
ye^terdny." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Mildred,  I  forgot." 

"  Dear  Ella,  if  I  could  only  once  hear  you  say, — not  I 
fortrot, — but  I  was  wrons;." 

"  I  do  say  it  very  often,"  replied  Ella. 

"  Yes,  when  the  accusations  are  general,  but  never  when 
they  are  particular.  That  is  the  test  of  humility  and  sincerity, 
not  to  say  merely  I  have  a  bad  temper,  or  I  am  indolent ;  but 
I  was  very  passionate  on  such  an  occasion,  and  sat  still  when 
I  ought  to  have  exerted  myself  on  another.  I  fear,  Ella,  yonr 
repentance  is  as  vague  as  your  resolution;  and  we  can  only 
cure  our  faults  by  knowing  their  details  and  having  rules  by 
which  to  correct  them." 

"Then  mine  will  never  be  cured,"  replied  Ella;  ''fori 
hate  rules,  they  are  so  narrow-minded.  Aunt  Mildred,  you 
must  allow  that." 

"  They  may  be  narrow-minded.  I  don't  see  that  they  are 
so  necessarily,"  replied  Mildred. 

"  Well !  but — don't  be  angry  with  me, — Aunt  Bertha  is 
full  of  rules.  I  am  sure  she  never  allows  herself  to  eat,  or 
drink,  or  sleep,  except  by  rule." 

"  Dearest  Ella ;  always  alluding  to  Aunt  Bertha,  never 
thinking  of  yourself !" 

"  I  am  a  heathen  compared  with  her,  I  know  that,  but  I 
can't  help  believing, — I  really  don't  mean  to  be  conceited,  and 
I  would  not  say  it  to  any  one  but  you, — I  can't  help  fancying 
that  I  am  more  agreeable." 

"  And  you  think  the  rules  are  the  cause." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  If  one  tries  to  throw  oneself  into  her 
ways,  it  is  like  being  in  a  prison  and  one  is  always  running  up 
against  the  bars.  You  know  you  have  scarcely  seen  her,  so 
you  can't  at  all  tell  what  she  is  like." 

"  She  is  coming  to  see  me  soon,"  replied  Mildred 
thoughtfully. 

"  I  hope  you  will  understand  her  better  than  I  do;  but  I 
don't  think  you  will;  you  are  so  unlike  her.  How  she  makes 
me  hate  duty  I" 

"  Well,  then," — Mildred's  voice  became  graver, — "  what 
do  you  say  to  love  ?" 

"  Ix>ve  of  you?     It  would  make  me  work  for  ever." 

"  Only  you  cun't  copy  music  for  me.     Ah,  Ella,  you  sec 


10 i  CLEVE    HALL. 

yon  have  been  tried  and  failed.     No,  it  is  not  ?»y  love  wliich 
will  help  you." 

"  I  am  not  fit  for  any  hi_<i;hcr  love,"  said  Ella,  p-avel}!-. 

"  Only  that  you  cannot  escape  it,"  said  31ildred,  earnestly, 
''  the  love  Avhich  upheld  you  when  you  stood  on  the  brink  of 
death,  Avliich  inspired  you  with  presence  of  mind,  which  sent 
you  succor  at  the  very  moment  of  need.  Oh,  Ella !  for  the 
sake  of  that  dear  love,  will  you  not  try  to  be  really  <;;ood  ?" 

"Aunt  Mildred,  it  is  so  torrible  to  say  it;  but  I  don't 
feel  it." 

"  But,  Ella,  dearest,  it  is  not  a  question  of  feeling ;  you  are 
the  child  of  God's  love  even  when  you  turn  away  and  forget 
Him.  And  now  lie  has  recalled  you  to  Himself;  and  has 
bestowed  upon  you  a  great  mercy,  and  only  requires  you  to 
show  your  thankfulness  by  attention  to  little  duties.  Can  you 
have  the  spirit  of  a  Christian  knight  if  you  refuse  ?" 

Ella  looked  distressed. 

"Please  don't  remind  me  of  that,"  she  said.  "I  know 
I  never  could  be  a  knight  or  anything  else  that  is  good  for 
much." 

"  I>ut  indeed,  I  must  remind  you  of  it,  because,  though 
you  think  I  laugh  at  you,  I  do  really  and  truly  feel  that  the 
longings  wdiich  you  have  so  often,  those  poetical  dreams  of 
bygone  days,  are  really  the  indications  of  v,'liat  you  ought  to 
be,  and  may  be  if  you  will." 

"  Not  if  I  will." 

"  Yes,  most  certainly  if  3'ou  will.  It  is  only  the  will  which 
you  want." 

"  But  I  can't  make  myself  will." 

"But  you  can  pray;  that  is  the  beginning  of  willing,  and 
without  it  will  is  nothing." 

"  I  have  no  perseverance ;  I  do  everything  by  fits  and 
starts,"  said  Ella;  "and  when  the  mood  is  upon  me  I  can't 
resist." 

"  All  wlii(-h  shows  that  you  have  certainly,  as  regards 
goodness,  a  weak  Avill.  But  against  this  you  nmst  put  enthu- 
siasm, taste,  (juick  perception  of  all  that  is  beautiful  and 
uoble ;  the  advantages  ought  to  balance  the  defects." 

"I  must  be  what  I  was  made,"  replied  Ella. 

"  No,  dear  Ella,  never,  never  !"  exclaimed  Mildred,  eagerly 
'  God  gives  us  all  the  materials  for  the  formation  of  charac- 
ter. He  leaves  it  to  ourselves  to  decide  into  what  form  ii 
shall  be  moulded;  only  He  tells  us  that  if  we  come  to  Him 


CLEVE    HALL.  20o 

and  ask  Ills  aid,  lie  will  teach  us  liow  to  funn  it  to  the  greatest 
perfection." 

"I  am  sure  I  dou't  know  what  my  materials  are,"  said 
Ella. 

"  Then,  my  dear  child,  it  is  high  time  you  should  know. 
It  is  the  root  of  all  education,  whether  of  ourselves  or  others. 
Look  at  yourself  closely ;  it  will  do  you  no  harm.  Search  out 
all  3'our  good  points;  bring  out  all  your  natural  advantages; 
inquire  at  the  same  time  into  your  faults.  When  you  have 
done  this,  you  will  be  able  to  understand  what  ought  to  bo 
your  course  of  self-education." 

"  It  is  a  fearful  task,"  said  Ella,  wearily.  "  Aunt  Mildred, 
I  think  you  had  much  better  do  it  for  me." 

"  Xo  one  can  do  it  thoroughly  but  yourself,  Ella.  It  is 
very  well  to  be  educated  by  others  when  we  are  children ;  and 
it  is  very  necessary  for  those  who  wish  to  educate  properly,  to 
study  the  characters  which  they  have  to  form ;  but  when  we 
have  passed  the  age  of  early  childhood,  no  persons  but  our- 
selves can  really  do  much  for  us." 

''lam  sure  no  one  ever  studied  me  or  understood  me," 
said  Ella. 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  that  you  should  understand 
yovirself.  Only  one  caution  I  would  give  you.  It  is  not  wise 
to  attempt  or  wish  to  be  anything  but  what  Grod  has  marked 
out  for  us.  It  is  useless  for  a  very  imaginative  person  to 
endeavor  to  become  tnatter-of-fact ;  and  useless  in  the  same 
way  f(jr  a  A'ery  matter-of-fact  person  to  try  and  be  ima- 
ginative." 

"  Then  you  will  leave  me  my  imagination,  and  not  call  it  a 
sin,  like  Aunt  Bertha?"  said  Ella. 

"  Leave  it,  and  encourage  it  to  the  very  utmost,"  replied 
Mildred;  "  only  I  would  make  it  what  it  was  intended  to  be, 
— a  help  and  not  a  hindrance.  Our  strongest  characteristic, 
whatever  it  may  be  (I  am  speaking  of  course  only  of  that 
vrhich  is  good),  is  the  grappling-iron  by  which  we  are  first  to 
seize  on  Heaven.  Oh,  Ella,  if  you  long  for  beauty  and  per- 
fection, and  sigh  because  there  is  no  one  to  love  with  all  your 
heart,  why  do  you  not  turn  to  the  Source  of  all  beauty, — the 
love  which  can  never  change  ?" 

''Because  I  can't,"  replied  Ella,  candidly.  "Aunt  Mil- 
fired,  I  have  had  the  same  thing  said  to  me  again  and  again. 
."^Ir.  Lester  has  talked  to  me.     I  have  read  it  in  sermons.     I 


20G  CLEVE    HALL. 

know  it  is  all  true  and  good,  but  I  can't  feel  it.  I  cun't  ninlce 
lay  self  luve." 

"Dearest  Ella,  no.  Love  is  a  gift, — the  highest  gifY  of  all. 
But  action  will,  through  God's  mercy,  bring  you  to  it." 

"  And  tiresome,  troublesome  rules,  make  me  feel  as  if  I 
never  could  love/'  said  Ella.  "  They  make  me  dread  reli- 
gion." 

*'  I  should  be  sorry  to  deceive  you,  Ella,  lleligion,  to  a 
person  of  your  self-indulgent,  imaginative  temperament,  must 
always,  at  the  beginning,  be  irksome.  But  the  very  excita- 
bility of  your  disposition  maybe  your  help.  You  sayjou  can- 
not feel  love,  but  that  is  not  true  at  all  times.  You  did  feel 
it  the  other  day  "when  you  were  saved  from  that  horrible 
danger." 

"  Yes,  I  couldn't  help  it;"  and  Ella's  face  showed  a  quick, 
inward  self-recollection  and  self-reproach. 

"  And  you  feel  it  when  you  i-ead  beautiful  poetry,  or  hear 
of  noble  deeds, — of  heroism,  chivalry,  for  instance." 

*'  Yes,  but  that  is  only  feeling." 

"Yet  clench  the  feeling  at  once,  whenever  it  comes,  by 
some  action,  however  slight,  and  you  will,  unknown  to  your- 
self, have  made  a  step  in  advance  towards  rendering  love  per- 
manent." 

"  Hulcs,"  murmured  Ella,  "  I  hate  rules." 

"And  don't  fetter  yourself  with  rules,"  replied  jMil- 
dred.  "  They  are  not  religion,  only  aids  to  it.  They  clog 
some  minds,  whilst  they  strengthen  others." 

"  But  Aunt  Bertha  says  people  are  worth  nothing  unless 
they  live  according  to  inilc,"  said  Ella. 

*'  She  is  right,  no  doubt,  to  a  certain  extent.  You  know  I 
did  not  say,  don't  attend  to  rules,  but  only  don't  fetter  your- 
self with  them.  A  few  rules,  simple,  easy,  and  capable  of  be- 
ing stretched  if  necessary,  are  quite  sufficient,  especially  for 
you.  For,  Ella,  you  will  never  be  happy  yourself,  or  assist  in 
making  others  so,  until  your  rules  are  the  result  of  your  feel- 
ing of  love,  and  not  merely  of  your  sense  of  duty." 

"  But,  Aunt  Mildred," — and  Ella  started  up  in  astonish- 
ment,— "  at  home  they  are  always  preaching  to  me  about 
duty." 

*'So  would  T  preach  too,  Ella,  if  I  thought  it  would  make 
you  do  your  duty.  But,  as  I  said  before,  we  have  certain  ma- 
terials given  us  by  God  out  of  which  our  religious  character  is 
io  be  formed.     AVith  many  minds,  when  the  temperament  la 


CLEVE    HALL.  207 

Ciilin,  nnd  there  is  an  instinctive  love  of  order  and  method,  the 
idea  of  duty  is  infinitely  powerfid.  It  will  never,  indeed,  by 
itself,  produce  a  very  earnest  religious  feeling ;  but  it  will  put 
us  iu  the  way  which  leads  to  it.  But  it  is  not  so  with  all. 
There  are  those  to  whom  the  very  name  of  duty  sounds  cold 
and  repulsive.  Those  are  the  minds  which  take  the  highest 
flight  and  siidc  to  the  lowest  depths.  Ella,  will  yours  be 
amongst  them  ?" 

Tears  glistened  in  Ella's  eyes.  ''  Aunt  Mildred,  if  you 
would  only  tell  me  what  to  do  ?     Even  now  I  don't  see." 

"Pray,  dear  Ella,  first;  without  that,  nothing  can  succeed." 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  but  in  other  ways." 

"  You  would  not  be  obliged  to  inquire,  if  you  could  remem- 
ber that  your  life  has  a  second  time  been  given  you ;  and  that 
He  who  restored  it,  asks  for  your  love  in  return." 

"  Aimt  Mildred,  I  do  wish  to  please  Him."  Ella's  tone 
was  humble,  and  more  gentle. 

"  And  the  wish  is  not  lost,  dear  Ella.  Every  wish,  the 
very  least,  is  remembered  by  Him.  If  it  is  followed  by  an  ac- 
tion, it  is  accepted." 

Ella  stood  up,  and  pushed  the  easy  chair  aside.  "  Aunt 
Mildred,  I  will  copy  the  music  for  you  at  once." 

IMildred  smiled.  "  And,  Ella,  may  I  suggest  one  little 
rule  ? — that  the  easy  chair  should  never  be  used  till  evening, 
and  not  then  unless  you  are  really  tired." 

It  was  a  very  trifling  ending  to  a  long  conversation  ;  yet 
Ella  was  neithar  moody  nor  indolent  for  the  remainder  of  that 
day. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


Mil.  VI VIA N^  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  an  obscure  lodg- 
ing, in  oi'e  of  the  tall,  decnycd,  mournful  streets  of  de- 
parted grandeur,  to  be  found  in  the  north-west  region  of  Lon- 
don. His  shabbily  furnished  apartment  was  large,  and  had 
once  been  handsome,  and  still  retained  indications  of  ornament 
in  the  outline  of  a  heavy  cornice,  and  the  stuccoed  richness 
of  an  old-fashioned  ceiling.  A  few  books  were  on  the  table, 
with  a  writing-desk  and  papers;  and  a  fire  blazed  in  the  huge 
2,rate,  shadowed  by  a  high  mantel-piece,  which  was  supported 


208  CLEVE   HALL. 

by  Mcdiisa  heads.  There  was  an  attempt  at  comfort  in  the 
room — but  only  an  attempt ;  it  wanted  a  lady's  hand  to  arranj^c 
tlio  furnitnve,  and  the  niceties  of  a  lady's  taste  to  give  it  in 
the  least  an  air  of  home;  and  Mr.  Vivian,  nsed  thon<:;h  he  had 
been  to  years  of  solitude,  sighed,  perhajis,  ■\vith  the  recollection 
of  the  days  when  even  a  humble  dwelling  had  been  rendered 
cheerful  and  inviting  by  the  affectionate  care  which  had 
adorned  it. 

Neither  was  the  scene  without  more  cheering ;  a  yellow 
London  fog,  streets  covered  with  mud,  black  chimneys,  smokc- 
staincd  brick  walls ;  no  wonder  that  Mr.  Vivian  turned  with 
disgust  from  the  window,  and  sitting  down  to  his  desk,  endea- 
vored to  while  away  the  weary  hours  by  writing. 

His  letter  was  the  outpouring  of  a  burdened  and  not 
entirely  chastened  mind.  He  was  an  altered  man,  humble- 
minded,  heartily  religious,  but  he  was  himself  still ;  and  often, 
as  his  pen  was  moving  rapidly,  he  paused  to  consider,  whe- 
ther the  impulse  which  urged  him  was  one  to  which  it  was 
safe  to  yield,  or  whether  it  was  but  the  indulgence  of  that 
craving  for  sympathy  which  had  often  in  other  days  led  to 
weakness. 

"  My  dear  Lester, 
"  I  wrote  to  you  thi-ee  days  ago,  and  why,  you  will  say, 
should  I  write  again  ?  Because  I  am  lonely  and  dispirited, 
and  have  nothing  else  to  do.  A  sufficient  answer  for  my 
conscience,  though  not  perhaps  for  your  patience.  London  is 
very  dreary,  my  life  here  most  wearisome.  I  try  to  bear  it,  as 
you  say  I  ought,  and  I  fail.  Moreover,  I  cannot  see  the  rea- 
son for  delay.  Hope  grows  less.  The  children,  you  tell  me, 
are  scarcely  ever  with  their  grandfather;  nothing,  then,  can 
be  done  through  their  means.  You  and  Bertha  may  want  to 
open  my  way  more  clearly,  but  you  have  undertaken  a  task 
be^'oud  your  powers.  John  Vivian  is  far  too  experienced  a 
rogue  to  betray  himself.  Let  me  go  to  my  fiither,  cast  all 
iipon  the  die,  and,  if  rejection  is  my  answer,  I  will  submit; 
leave  England,  take  my  children  with  me,  if  not  to  Jamaica, 
to  some  other  home,  and  forget  that  I  ever  indulged  the  vain 
hope  which  has  already  brought  me  so  much  sorrow. 

"  Any  certainty  is  better  than  this  killing  suspense.  I  am 
not  stroog  enough  to  bear  it — morally  strong — I  feel  it  does 
me  injury.  I  am  becoming  captious  and  impatient.  Your 
letters  arc  the  only  things  I  can  bear.    Bertha's  try  me  beyond 


CLEVE    HALL.  20:1 

endurance.  She  is  always  telling  me  of  my  children's  faults, 
■ — that  Ella  is  wilful,  and  Clement  desultory, — and  dinning 
it  into  my  ears,  that  it  is  the  uncertainty  of  their  present  life 
which  is  so  bad  for  them. 

''  I  know  it  as  she  knows  it ;  and  better,  ten  thousand  times 
better.  It  has  been  the  remorseful  lesson  of  my  life,  that  1 
have  injured  them.  Why  does  she  add  bitterness  to  a  sad- 
dened spirit  ? 

"  But  I  am  unjust  .to  her,  I  feel.  She  has  done  for  my 
children  more  than  I  could  have  asked;  she  loves  them,  I 
fully  believe,  sincerely,  if  not  tenderly.  I  have  no  right  to 
require  more ;  and  yet  when  her  letters  come  they  dishearten 
me,  to  such  a  degree,  that  again  the  impulse  seizes  me,  to 
throw  off  disgrace,  once  more  appear  at  Encombe,  and  ta  ie 
the  decision  of  my  cause  into  my  own  hands. 

"Preach  to  me,  my  dear  Lester,  I  need  it  sadly;  my  miad 
is  terribly  undisciplined,  and  I  can  so  little  bear  with  mysulf. 
You  told  me  to  accept  my  life  as  my  punishment.  It  is  the 
only  way  in  which  I  could  endure  it.  But  there  are  times — ■ 
they  come  more  frequently  now  in  solitude  and  leisure — when 
the  spirit  of  submission  seems  to  forsake  me,  and  when  the 
thought  of  having  brought  the  suffering  upon  myself,  by  my 
own  wilfulness,  my  own  folly — worse  than  folly — my  sin,  is 
almost  maddening. 

"  jMen  talk  of  repentance  as  if  the  past  might  be  wiped 
out  by  teai's,  and  no  scar  left  to  mark  where  the  evil  has  been. 
Lester,  I  have  shed  tears  of  agony.  My  first  thought  in  the 
morning  has  been  sorrow,  my  last  consciousness  at  night  has 
been  of  penitence,  and  in  the  silence  of  midnight  I  have  risen 
to  pray  that  God  would  think  upon  me  in  His  jMercy,  and 
'  remember  not  the  sins  and  offences  of  my  youth.'  And  I 
believe  that  I  am  forgiven.  I  can  look  forward  to  death  with 
a  humble  hope  of  acceptance,  through  undeserved  Goodness, 
and  the  Atonement  once  made  for  all;  and  yet  the  stain  is 
fherc — indelible  to  my  own  eyes — though  it  may  be  unseen 
by  man,  and  in  mercy  forgotten  by  God. 

"  Repentance  docs  not  place  us,  in  this  world,  in  the  posi- 
tion in  which  we  should  have  been  if  we  had  never  sinned. 
The  mark  once  set  upon  us,  it  is  ineffaceable.  The  wound 
once  given,  and  it  must  and  will  at  times  re-open.  Oh  !  if  I 
could  make  Clement  feel  it! — now,  whilst  he  is  comparatively 
innocent,  whilst  his  offences  are  the  opening  faults  of  a  boy, 
u  it  tli(!  full-grjwn  wickedness  of  a  man.    And  yet  many  would 


210  CLEVE    HALL. 

scoff  at  mo  for  sr.yiiig  this ;  they  would  tell  me  that  my  mind 
is  morbid;  that  whatever  my  youth  may  have  been,  I  have 
redeemed  it  by  the  years  which  followed.  Alas!  my  early 
life  linQ;ered  far  longer  under  the  dominion  of  evil  than  those 
who  have  only  watched  its  outward  course  would  imagine. 
When  I  left  England  to  work  in  a  foreign  land,  I  was  not 
penitent,  but  exasperated.  Irritation  and  repining  darkened 
not  only  my  own  existence,  but  that  of  her  who  had  sacrificed 
all  for  me.  The  thought  is  as  a  dagger  to  me.  Not  till  she  was 
tdcen  froiu  me,  and  the  past,  as  regarded  her,  had  bccorae 
irremediable,  did  I  fully  see  what  my  course  had  been.  And 
then — I  have  heard  it  said  that  the  knowledge  of  evil  is  neces- 
sary, that  it  is  experience,- and  consequently  power — Oh! 
Lester,  how  little  can  such  persons  imagine  the  agony  of  those 
uioraents  when  first  the  heart  is  awakened  to  the  knowledge 
of  its  guilt;  the  sickening  glance  cast  upon  the  past,  the 
despairing  darkness  of  the  future,  and  the  longing,  the  intense 
longing,  to  hide  oneself  deep  from  all  eyes,  even,  were  it  pos- 
sible, tVom  the  Eye  of  God.  Those  feelings  are  not  strength, 
but  weakness ;  they  make  the  eye  dim,  and  the  hand  weak. 
Even  when  the  offer  of  mercy  comes  to  soothe  us,  their 
remembrance  still  haunts  us ;  and  when  we  should  be  press- 
ing forward  to  the  brightness  of  Heaven,  they  bid  us  turn  back 
to  gaze  again  upon  the  blackness  of  our  own  hearts,  and  once 
more  seek  to  wipe  out  our  offences  with  our  tears. 

"  I  need  not  say  this  to  you.  You  know  it  all ;  not  by 
your  own  experience.  God  be  thanked,  your  career  has  been 
very  different  from  mine  ;  but  by  the  griefs  of  others.  Yet  it 
is  a  relief  to  me.  There  is  comfort  in  working  out  in  my  own 
mind  why,  though  I  have  attained  to  peace,  I  have  never  yet 
reached  forward  to  joy.  It  may  come — you  will  perhaps  tell 
me  that  it  must  come — with  the  increasing  sense  of  God's 
infinite  love ;  but  I  doubt  it.  The  more  deeply  we  love,  the 
more  keen  must  be  the  grief  for  having  offended.  Joy  is  for 
those  who  have  from  the  beginning  held  on  their  course 
unwaveringly.  Peace  and  hope  are,  I  believe,  the  highest 
boon  granted  in  this  world  to  those  who  have  sinned  grievously 
and  repented  truly.  But  no  more  of  this — it  is  but  another 
form  of  self-indulgence.  I  must  learn  to  live  to  myself  and 
by  myself,  not  disturbing  the  happiness  of  those  who  have 
never  wandered  by  the  cloud  which  it  seems,  now,  must  for  ever 
rest  upon  my  own  spirit.  For  ray  children's  sake  I  would 
especially  strive  to  do  so ; — the  open  brow,  and  the  glad  smil?. 


CLEVE   HALL.  211 

fliust  be  for  them  and  for  the  ■workl ;  the  sackcloth,  and  ashes, 
and  the  tears  of  humiliation  for  the  Eye  of  God.  Yet  to  you 
I  would  say  that  even  when  I  am  most  apparently  repining  at 
the  punishment  which  I  have  brought  upon  myself, — I  could 
accept  my  grief,  ay,  were  it  a  hundred  times  greater,  and 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  thank  Grod  for  it,  if  by  it  I  were 
enabled  successfully  to  warn  Clement  against  the  fatal  yield- 
ing to  small  temptations,  which  ruined  my  own  character  as  a 
boy,  and  then  sent  me,  stamped  with  the  disheartening  brand 
of  weakness,  to  encounter  the  temptation  of  a  man.  Victory 
at  fourteen  would  have  been  victory  at  four-and-twenty. 
Victory  at  four-and-twenty  would,  through  God's  Mercy, 
have  been  safety  for  life  and  for  eternity.  Tell  it  him,  Lester, 
as  you  love  me,  as  you  would  save  yourself,  in  the  Great  Day 
of  account,  from  the  reproach  of  having  failed  to  warn  when 
the  opportunity  was  placed  within  your  reach. 

"  And  now,  farewell !  I  began  my  letter  with  impatient 
complaints,  I  end  it  with  the  confessions  of  repentance.  A 
true  epitome  of  my  whole  life ;  yet  so  far  what  I  said  at  first 
was  not  mere  impatience,  that  I  do  not  see  we  are  progressing, 
and  time  is  passing  on,  and  if  I  cannot  remain  in  England,  I 
must  prepare  for  establishing  s^  home  elsewhere.  Bertha's 
complaints  of  Ella  make  me  uneasy,  and  Clement  too  cannot 
be  left  to  his  present  course  of  life.  Something  must  be  done 
for  both.  I  feel  repugnant  to  allowing  Clement  to  accept  as 
a  favor  from  my  father,  what  even  now  I  cannot  help  feeling 
ought  to  be  his  as  a  right.  Even  if  I  am  cut  off  for  my 
offences,  there  would  seem  to  be  but  little  justice  in  punishing 
my  child. 

"  I  sometimes  think  that  a  situation  in  a  merchant's  office 
— and  I  have  interest  enough  to  procure  him  that — might  be 
more  honorable  for  him,  and,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  more 
advantageous  than  the  University.  At  any  rate,  I  must  have 
him  under  my  own  eye.  The  little  I  saw  and  heard  at  En- 
combe  made  me  feel  that  direct  authority  is  imperatively  neces- 
sary for  him. 

"  Some  things  about  him  I  can  so  well  understand  ;  they 
are  so  sadly  like  what  I  was  at  his  age !     Write  to  me  soon, 
and  give  me  some  definite  views,  or  I  shall  relapse  into  despair. 
"  Always  most  affectionately 

"  and  gratefully  yours, 

"G.  U.  V." 


21'2  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  Don  I  think  I  am  expecting  to  hear  of  success  as  re2:aril3 
John  Vivian  and  his  plots.  1  scarcely  think  about  them. 
They  are  so  vague,  and  so  far  in  the  past.  I  feel  that  what- 
ever they  were  they  have  done  me  all  the  liarni  they  could, 
and  that  the  discovery  of  them  could  not  profit  nie." 

Mr.  Lester's  answer  Avas  received  in  the  course  of  the  same 
week. 

"  My  dear  Vivian, 
'  You  write  me  volumes.  I  hope  you  don't  expect  volumes 
in  answer.  Yet  I  shall  have  a  good  deal  to  say  before  I  have 
done.  First  to  business.  You  can  do  nothing  better  than 
preach  patience  to  yourself,  and  by  the  time  the  lesson  is  learnt 
.  ^ve  may  look  forward  to  a  little  hope.  I  think  I  see  some 
already.  Ella  is  at  the  Hall, — the  first  opening  that  is  for 
awakening  interest;  and  whatever  may  be  the  end  of  our  re- 
searches into  John  Vivian's  doings,  we  shall  have  good  cause 
for  bright  anticipations  if  we  can  once  induce  the  General  to 
look  favorably  upon  the  children.  Jlrs.  Campbell's  step  in 
bringing  them  to  Eneombe  was  dangerous,  but  she  has  plenty 
of  worldly  wisdom.  I  don't  think  Clement  as  yet  likely  to 
win  his  way  to  his  grandfather's  heart.  "With  a  great  deal  of 
good  about  him,  he  is  too  careless  and  self-sufficient,  but  I 
have  some  hope  of  Ella  under  Mildred's  influence.  So  still 
patience,  my  dear  Vivian, — patience  with  me,  if  you  can,  and 
patience  with  your  sister-in-law,  even  if  you  cannot.  I  assure 
you  she  deserves  it  much  more  than  you  would  think.  A  peep 
into  the  home  at  the  Lodge  would  convince  you  of  this ;  and 
you  must  remember  that  she  has  been  trained  up  in  a  school 
Avhich  gives  her  a  quick  eye  for  defects,  and  a  slow  one  for 
virtues.  ^ 

"  There  are  two  theories  of  education,  one  which  checks 
faults,  the  other  which  encourages  virtues.  I  lean  to  the  lat- 
ter; but  then  I  am  a  man,  and  don't  pretend  to  know  much 
about  the  education  of  any  of  woman-kind,  except  mv  little 
Eachel.  '  i        y 

"  All  my  hopes  rest  upon  jNIildred.  When  I  speak  of  her 
I  am  raising  up  the  old  question,  why  may  you  not  tell  her 
where  you  are  ?  The  answer  is  soon  given — she  knows  it. 
Don't  fjuarrel  Avith  me  for  acting  upon  my  own  responsibility. 
Your  last  letter  made  me  unhappy.  I  felt  that  she  could  com- 
fort you  much  better  than  I  could,  and,  moreover,  I  was  cer- 
tain that  you  would  not  bear  the  concealment  much  longer 


CLEVE    HALL.  Zi6 

Miss  Caiuobell  and  I  took  counsel  together,  and  yesterday 
eveuing  I  told  her. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  too,  that  I  found  myself  getting 
into  a  diificulty.  Mildred  had  been  complaining  of  your  only 
writing  short  notes  through  me.  As  a  proof  that  I  am  not 
given  to  plots  and  deceptions,  it  never  struck  me  till  the  other 
day  that  we  could  not  go  on  very  long  keeping  up  this  kind 
of  mock  correspondence. 

"  Of  course  she  was  considerably  startled,  and  for  a  few 
moments  I  was  rather  frightened  at  the  effect  the  news  had 
upon  her,  but  she  soon  recovered  herself.  I  think  too  that, 
at  first,  she  was  much  annoyed  at  not  having  been  told  before. 
But  she  is  always  most  good  and  reasonable,  and  I  made  her 
see  how  impossible  it  was  for  you  to  meet,  and,  therefore,  that 
it  was  much  better  she  should  know  nothing  about  it.  She 
feels  with  me  that  we  must  not  hurry  matters;  but  she  will 
write  and  give  you  her  own  ideas.  The  fact  of  your  being  in 
England  is  an  immense  relief  to  her  in  one  way, — it  makes  it 
possible  to  see  you;  but,  as  is  natural  enough,  she  is  full  of 
anxieties.  The  necessity  of  keeping  up  before  the  General 
will  be  very  trying  to  her;  but  Ella  may  be  a  great  help  by 
diverting  her  attention. 

''  I  am  inclined  to  be  vexed  that  we  did  not  tell  her  before, 
now  I  see  how  well  she  bears  it ;  but  I  was  afraid  of  the  sur- 
prise for  her,  and  certainly  we  have  spared  her  a  good  deal  in 
that  way. 

"  This,  I  trust,  will  be  one  great  load  off  your  mind.  For 
the  rest  I  would  say — remember  that  you  came  unsummoned, 
and  have,  therefore,  no  right  to  complain  that  we  are  not  ready 
for  you.  By  your  own  acknowledgment  you  have  still,  humanly 
speaking,  some  months  before  you.  Give  us  time,  and  if  at 
last  we  can  do  nothing  for  you,  you  can  but  come  forward 
yourself,  and,  whatever  may  be  tlae  result,  at  least  you  will 
not  have  to  say  that  you  have  again  marred  your  own  fortunes 
by  impatience. 

"  John  Vivian  is  going  on  much  as  usual.  He  looks 
askance  at  me,  knowing  I  am  your  friend  and  have  an  interest 
in  llonald;  so  we  seldom  exchange  more  than  a  few  words. 
It  makes  me  often  imhappy;  but  I  feel  that  a  day  must,  in  all 
probability,  come  when  he  will  be  forced  to  hear  me.  llonald 
is  at  home  still.  Miss  Campbell  and  1  had  planned  getting 
him  into  the  merchant  service,  but  it  made  the  father  so  out- 
rageous that  wo  did  not  dare  press  the  point.     All  1  can  do 


214  CLEVE    HALL. 

now  is  to  ui<fo  hi  in  to  educate  himself  as  well  as  he  can,  in 
preparation  for  whatever  may  open.  He  has  taken  my  sn<i;- 
gestion,  and  works  at  Latin  and  mathematics  as  heartily, 
thouiih  perhaps  not  as  willingly,  as  he  shoots,  fish(js,  climbs 
the  hills,  or  manages  a  boat  in  a  storm.  .  A  most  noble  fellow 
he  is  !  but  there  is  a  cloud  over  him,  and  sometimes  I  am 
afraid  of  its  effect.  I  can't  help  feeling  sorry  that  ]Jertha 
ever  told  him  his  father's  history  :  he  feels  now,  I  can  see, 
that  he  is  the  born  enemy  of  all  your  family,  and  shrinks  from 
receiving  kindness.  That  is  part  of  his  mother's  sensitive 
nature,  which  he  inherits  strongly.  He  is  scarcely  at  all  with 
Clement  now.  AVhen  he  once  knew  that  we  disapproved  of 
the  intimacy,  he  was  the  first  to  break  it  off.  I  suspect  he 
has  suffered  a  good  deal  in  consequence :  Miss  Campbell,  who 
manages  to  know  more  of  him  than  any  one  else,  tells  me  that 
he  often  hints  at  a  state  of  affairs  with  his  father  which  must 
be  terrific.     John  Vivian  is  a  madman  when  aroused. 

"  As  regards  Clement  (I  believe  I  am  a  moral  coward,  for 
I  have  kept  the  most  difficult  subject  to  the  last),  I  confess  I 
am  not  thoroughly  comfortable.  Encombc  is  not  the  right 
place  for  him,  but  where  else  to  send  him  is  a  problem  I  can't 
quite  solve.  I  don't  at  all  like  the  notion  of  a  merchant's 
office ;  his  fastidious  pride  would  revolt  from  it,  and  I  suspect 
it  would  render  him  very  bitter.  The  University  would  do 
well,  if  we  could  make  him  work,  and  turn  him  into  a  barris- 
ter; but  I  don't  see,  at  pi'esent,  any  inclination  for  exertion 
of  that  kind.  He  makes  me  at  times  very  anxious.  I  hoped, 
when  withdrawn  from  the  temptation  of  Konald's  companion- 
ship, that  he  would  make  himself  happy  at  home ;  but  this  is 
not  the  case.  In  some  way  or  other,  there  has  sprung  up  a 
kind  of  rivalry  with  ll(^nald,  whose  energy  and  independence, 
and  even  recklessness,  are  just  now  the  objects  of  Clement's 
envy  and  imitation.  He  hears  them  cx-aggerated  and  admired 
by  the  villagers  and  fishermen,  and  so  he  must  needs  endeavor 
to  copy  them ;  not  seeing  that  his  advantages  are  of  a  totally 
different  character.  I  keep  as  strict  a  watch  over  him  as  pos- 
sible, but  I  can't  neglect  my  parish,  and  I  must  leave  him 
some  degree  of  freedom,  or  I  should  drive  him  into  deceit. 
In  a  certain  Avay  he  gives  me  his  confidence,  but  it  is  princi- 
pally confined  to  generalities,  and  I  see  vanity  creeping  out 
even  in  his  fits  of  good  intention.  Then  his  disobediences, 
which  are  the  chief  topics  of  complaint  on  my  side,  are  but 
Email ;  and  to  be  always  harping  upon  what  seems  to  him  tri- 


CLEVE    HALL.  215 

fiinji-  faults  frets  liis  temper,  and  sometimes,  I  fancy,  makes 
liiiu  worse,  instead  of  better.  I  should  care  less,  but  that  1 
feel  there  may  be  some  hidden  mischief  at  work.  John  A^ivian 
and  Goff  are  continually  putting  themselves  in  his  way,  and 
tempting  him  to  be  with  them.  1  have,  of  course,  strictly 
forbidden  the  intercourse  ;  but  the  law  I  have  laid  down  is  per- 
petually broken  upon  slight  pretences,  and,  in  some  instances, 
the  fault  can  scarcely  be  said  to  lie  with  Clement.  They 
haunt  and  persecute  him  till  it  would  require  a  firmness  much 
beyond  what  we  can  expect  in  him  to  resist;  and  then,  as  I 
said  before,  comes  the  spirit  of  rivalry  and  envy  of  Ronald, 
to  aid  the  temptation, — and  so  he  falls. 

"  This  must  not  continue,  or  it  will  be  his  ruin,  and  the 
destruction  of  all  our  hopes.  The  General  already  believes 
that  Clement  has  a  taste  for  low  company,  because  he  has 
seen  him  talking  to  Captain  Vivian  and  Goff,  and  heard  him 
use  slang  expressions.  Nothing  can  be  more  false  than  such 
an  impression.  Place  Clement  in  his  right  position  at  Cleve, 
and  give  him  companions  of  his  own  age  who  would  raise  his 
tone,  instead  of  lowering  it,  and  his  natural  cultivation  of 
mind  and  honorable  feeling  would,  at  least,  prevent  him  from 
sinking,  till  he  had  attained  that  higher  principle  which  alone 
will  give  him  stability. 

"  Certainly,  the  analogy  of  life  teaches  one  more  and  more 
the  infinite  wisdom  of  God's  Providence  in  giving  us  our  posi- 
tion as  Christians,  and  bidding  us  keep  it,  instead  of  leaving 
us  in  our  natural  state  of  degradation,  and  then  telling  us  to 
work,  even  with  His  aid,  to  raise  ourselves.  Clement's  mind 
is  just  one  of  those  which  can  retain,  but  cannot  reach  for- 
ward ;  and  the  uncertainty  of  his  position  is  his  stumbling- 
block.  An  additional  reason,  my  dear  Vivian,  for  hastening 
the  moment  of  decision.  Trust  me,  it  shall  not  be  delayed  a 
moment  longer  than  is  absolutely  necessary.  I  have  dark  sus- 
picions sometimes  of  John  Vivian's  ftdsity;  but  the  more 
dark  the  less  to  be  brought  forward  without  substantial  proof. 

"  I  have  talked  to  your  friend  the  sexton  lately,  and  led 
him  to  repeat  to  me  again  all  which  passed  on  that  eventful 
day  of  your  cousin's  visit  to  the  Hall.  lie  dwelt  more  than 
ever  upitn  the  strangeness  of  Golf's  manner,  and  his  certainty 
that  some  villany  was  pending.  Could  it  have  been  forgery  i* 
I  Ijclieve  either,  or  both  of  them,  capable  of  any  amount  of 
iiiiijuity.  John  Vivian  left  England  immediately  afterwards, 
lie  has  only  returned  to  Encombe  within  the  last  five  years, 


216  CLEVE    HALL. 

ami  that  not  till  (jofTliad  pioneered  the  way  for  liiiu.    I  could 
never  understand  what  became  of  them  both  iu  the  interim. 

"  I  have  pondered  much,  hitely,  upon  the  consequences  of 
opening  the  inquiry  with  the  General.  A  year  ago  I  should 
have  hesitated  less,  but  he  has  broken  very  much  latterly,  and 
I  tremble  to  think  what  excitement  would  do.  Then  there 
must  be  a  trial, — public  exposure, — all  the  old  griefs  brought 
up.     No  one  can  say  how  I  dread  it. 

''If  you  can  think  of  anything  which  will  remove  Clement 
from  Encombe,  please  let  me  know.  A  private  tutor  at  a  dis- 
tance might  be  the  right  thing,  but  then — the  money  !  You 
must  not  let  your  pride  stand  in  the  way  of  your  boy's  good. 
I  should  not  myself  at  all  mind  sounding  the  General  on  the 
subject. 

"  Good  b'ye,  my  dear  Vivian  !  from  my  heart  I  feel  for 
you.  You  must  require  this  assurance  when  I  write  so  calmly 
upon  questions  in  which  all  the  happiness  of  your  life  is  at 
stake  ;  still  more  when  I  take  so  little  notice  of  the  burden  of 
your  letter.  But  I  have  said  before  all  that  can  be  said,  at 
least  by  me,  on  that  point.  Repentance,  as  you  say,  cannot 
place  a  man  in  this  world  in  the  position  in  which  he  would 
have  been,  if  he  had. never  erred ;  but  it  may  deepen  his  love, 
and  quicken  his  gratitude;  and  I  don't  think  that  feeling  can 
ever  be  sound  which  would  make  iis  so  mourn  over  the  past, 
as  to  render  us  insensible  to  the  blessings  of  the  present  and 
the  hopes  of  the  future. 

"  This,  I  think,  is  the  tendency  of  your  mind.  May  there 
not  also  be  something  of  repining  in  the  spirit  which,  instead 
of  being  thankful  for  peace,  is  inclined  to  despair  because  it 
cannot  attain  to  joy?  I  am  lecturing  myself  at  the  same  time 
that  I  seem  to  be  warning  you.  He  is  indeed  happy,  who  has 
not  some  sin  upon  his  conscience,  which  though  it  may  not 
have  brought  disgrace  upon  him  in  the  sight  of  men,  has 
lowered  him  in  his  own  eyes,  and  still  haunts  his  memory, — 
as  the  one  black  spot  which,  in  moments  of  weak  faith,  it 
would  seem  could  never  be  effaced. 

"  God  give  us  strength  to  bear  the  sight  of  our  own  hearts, 
and  still  to  trust  in  His  mercy. 

''  You  shall  hear  from  me  again  soon. 

"  Always  most  affectionately  yours, 

"J?,OBKRT  Lester." 


cIeve  hall.  217 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

MR.  LESTER  was  at  the  Hall  the  day  after  the  preceding 
letter  had  been  seut.  The  day  was  bright,  fur  snow  had 
fallen  in  the  night,  and  Clement,  taking  advantage  of  an  ex- 
hilarating frost,  had  called  to  take  Ella  tor  a  long  walk.  Mr. 
Lester,  therefore,  found  Mildred  alone,  busy  as  usual,  and 
veiy  cheerful ;  yet  with  the  worn  lines  of  thought  particularly 
marked.  She  received  him  nervously,  as  if  expecting  he  must 
bring  fresh  tidings  to  startle  her,  but  she  tried  to  be  calm,  aud 
her  first  remark  was  a  slight  reproach  that  he  had  not  seen  her 
father  the  previous  day.  "  He  heard  you  were  here  the  eve- 
ning before,"  she  said,  "  and  he  declares  that  you  will  never 
come  to  him,  but  that  all  your  visits  are  to  me." 

"  I  hoped  General  Vivian  was  getting  better,"  was  Mr. 
Lester's  reply;  "  they  told  me  he  was  down  stairs  again,  aud 
had  been  out  in  the  garden." 

"  He  is  better;  yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Mildred,  with  an  air 
of  consideration,  "  but  he  is  more  feeble  than  he  was,  and  his 
spirits  are  not  good." 

"  Is  it  illness,  only,  do  you  think?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  it  is  very  difficult  to  tell  anything  about 
him.  Oh,  Mr.  Lester,  why  are  some  natures  so  unapproach- 
able ?" 

"  To  teach  others  patience  and  submission,  we  may  sup- 
pose. But,  Mildred,  this  state  of  things  can't  go  on  much 
longer." 

"  No,"  exclaimed  Mildred,  "  for  every  one's  sake.  I  have 
written,  as  you  said  I  might.  I  have  told  Edward  he  must  be 
patient,  but  my  heart  grows  sick  with  fear.  The  intense,  at 
times  agonizing,  longing  to  see  him,  seems  even  worse,  now  he 
is  so  near.  And  my  father,  too,  makes  me  unhappy.  He  will 
never  confess  it,  but  his  spirit  is  broken.  I  am  sure  he  feels 
very  desolate." 

"  His  own  act,  an  act  which  one  word  might  revoke." 
"Yes,  if  he  could  think  it  right  to  revoke  it;   but  the 
weaker  his  physical   powers,  the  stronger  becomes  his  will. 
Yet  I  try  not  to  despair." 

'*  Despair  is  for  those  who  have  said  in  their  hearts  '  there 
is  DO  God,'  "  replied  Mr.  Lester. 

"  Than).'  /ou;  I  remind  myself  of  that  very  often;  and  1 


218  CI.KVE    HALL. 

fvA  that  tilings  arc  better  now,  and  have  more  hope  for  tho 
future,  than  at  one  tune  I  could  have  exi^cctcd.  I  am  thank- 
ful to  have  Ella  here." 

"  Docs  the  General  take  muc-h  notice  of  her?" 

"  A  good  deal,  in  a  curious  way ;  never  by  praise,  but  as 
though  he  were  always  weighing  what  she  said  or  did." 

""Xhat  must  be  anxious  work  with  such  a  person  as  Ella." 

"  Yes,  and  she  is  so  incautious,  so  entirely  wanting  in  self- 
restraint.  There  must  have  been  something  sadly  wanting  in 
her  education." 

"Not  something,  but  many  things.  Chiefly  though  the 
spirit  of  love.     But  I  trust  to  you  to  do  wonders  for  her." 

"Please  not  to  do  that,"  said  Mildred,  eagerly. _  "  I  have 
seen  so  little  of  girls  of  her  age,  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  at  all 
knew  what  to  do  with  her." 

"■  You  have  educated  yourself,  which  is  the  chief  and  best 
guide  in  our  education  of  others." 

"  God  has  educated  me,"  said  Mildred,  reverently.  "  jMany 
times  when  I  have  been  inclined  to  murmur  at  the  trials  of 
my  life,  I  have  subdued  and  comforted  myself  by  the  thought. 
But  what  I  feel  about  Ella  is  that  she  has  not  an  eye  to  see 
the  meaning  of  her  troubles.  Self-indulgence  blinds  her.  Oh  ! 
Mr.  Lester,  there  are  times  when  she  is  so  sadly  like  my  poor 
brother." 

"  You  must  not  call  him  poor  now.  He  at  least  has  learnt 
the  meaning  of  his  trials." 

"  They  have  come  to  him  in  the  form  of  punishment,"  said 
Mildred.  "  I  would  strive  to  save  Ella  from  that.  Punish- 
ment and  discipline  are  very  different." 

"  I  trust  that  Y''ivian's  future  life  may  be  only  discipline," 
replied  Mr.  Lester.  "  I  shall  have  great  hope  if  we  can  once 
open  the  way  with  the  General.  Does  he  never  allude  to  the 
past?" 

"  Never,  except  in  that  stern  fashion  of  self-congratulation, 
which  is  so  terrible  to  me." 

"  He  wraps  his  heart  in  his  principle  of  justice,  as  a  man 
does  his  body  in  a  water-proof  cloak,"  said  Mr.  Lester,  "and 
it  shuts  out  all  other  claims,  and  makes  him  feel  so  warm  and 
comfortable,  that  he  does  not  know  they  exist." 

"  Y'et  it  is  dreadfully  oppressive  to  him,"  said  Mildred. 
"  He  feels  he  has  had  such  a  disappointed  life." 

"Perhaps,  because  he  has  been  trying  to  fit  the  world  to 
himself,  instead  of  fitting  himself  to  the  world.     But  a  ]uaD 


CLEVE    HALL.  "219 

(vltli  only  oue  moral  principle  of  action  must  be  diya2)pointod. 
It  absorbs  all  others  into  itself,  and  becomes  darkness.  Where- 
as the  love  of  God,  the  only  perfect  motive,  is  formed  of  the 
many  rainbow  hues  of  heavenly  perfection,  melting  into  oue, 
and  producing  light." 

Mildred  smiled,  rather  sadly.  "  We  must  not  hope  to 
make  him  uuderstand  that,"  she  said. 

"  No.  I  have  learut  at  last,  to  think  that,  after  a  certain 
period  of  life,  time,  and  I  hope  not  wrong,  worldly  wisdom, 
consists  less  in  trying  perpetually  to  alter  the  persons  we  have 
to  deal  with,  than  in  taking  their  characters  as  they  are,  and 
framing  our  own  actions  accordingly.  When  the  outline  of 
the  character  has  once  become  rigid,  nothing  but  the  special 
interposition  of  God's  grace  can  soften  it.  But  we  will  hope 
for  that,  Mildred,  and  pray  for  it." 

"  That  is  my  father's  footstep,"  said  Mildred,  listening. 
She  turned  very  pale. 

"  He  walks  firmly,"  observed  Mr.  Lester. 

The  door  opened,  aud  General  Vivian  entered  the  apart- 
ment. 

It  was  strange  the  power  which  his  presence  exercised. 
Mildred's  cheek  was  still  colorless,  but  in  one  instant  she  was 
composed  and  seemingly  iudiiferent  in  manner;  and  Mr.  Les- 
ter, too,  turned  to  address  the  stern  old  man  in  the  quiet  tone 
of  affectionate  respect,  which  seemed  to  have  no  thought  ex- 
cept for  the  usual  civilities  of  life. 

"You  are  a  stranger,  Mr.  Lester,"  and  General  Vivian 
held  out  his  hand  with  an  air  of  stately  cordiality. 

"  Not  willingly.  Sir.  I  have  had  more  to  do  than  usual  in 
the  parish.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  sickness  about.  I  heard 
better  reports  of  you  though,  and  I  hope  they  are  true ;  you 
are  looking  tolerably  well." 

"  As  well  as  an  old  man  of  seventy-five  can  expect  to  look. 
I\Iildred,  Hardman'says  that  the  poachers  were  about  in  the 
woods  a<rain  last  night." 

General  Vivian  sat  down,  and  clenched  his  stick  with  both 
hands  in  thoughtful  deliberation.  "  I  wish,  Mr.  Lester,  you 
could  preach  a  better  spirit  into  your  people." 

"  I  wish  I  could,  Sir,  most  heartily.  But  Ilardman  doesn't 
suspect  any  in  particular,  does  he  ?" 

"lie  tells  me  the  leaders  are  from  Clove.  It  seems  that 
Kneombe  and  Clevc  divide  the  honors  of  villatiy  between  them. 
I'hicombo  patronizes  smuggling,  and  Clove  poaching." 


220  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  An  ovil  olioice,"  observed  Mr.  Lester. 

"Evil,  iiulced;  but  at  any  rate  we  can  (.-laiin  prc-ominonce 
in  cxanipio.  The  Clove  poachers  are  not  likely  to  have  so  dis- 
tihjijuishod  a  leader  as  the  Knconibe  siuutit^lers.  We  may  ex- 
pfcct  the  name  of  Captain  Vivian  tu  head  the  list  of  indictments 
at  the  next  sessions." 

"  He  has  not  been  taken  ?  Tlicre  is  nothinsi;  found  ag;aiiist 
him,  is  there  T'  inquired  3Ir.  Lester,  hastily,  and  Mildred 
also  raised  her  pale  face  to  her  father's,  with  a  look  of  quick 
interest. 

"  If  he  has  not  been  taken,  the  more  shan:e  to  the  coast- 
guard," exclaimed  the  General.  "  It  is  the  talk  of  the  nei<ih- 
borhood  that  the  trader  lying  off  the  shore  belongs  to  John 
Vivian,  and  is  a  smuggler,  and  yet  they  are  for  ever  laying 
hands  upon  some  poor  wretch,  whose  only  fault  is  that  he  is 
too  weak  to  stand  out  against  those  whom  he  knows  he  ought 
to  respect.  But  it  will  come  at  last.  The  name  will  figure 
bravely  in  the  annals  of  the  county  gaol.  Ay,  and  I  would 
be  the  first  to  put  it  there." 

"  Are  they  on  the  look-out  for  him,  then  ?"  inquired  Mil- 
dred. 

"  Wliy,  child  !"  he  turned  to  her  suddenly,  with  a  scruti- 
nizing gaze  :  "  You  are  ill  this  morning,  Mildred." 

"  Only  a  little  tired,  dear  Sir.  Did  you  say  they  were  on 
the  look-out  for  Captain  Vivian  ?" 

"  Pshaw  !  wretch  !  leave  him.  Mildred,  my  darling,  you 
musnt't  look  so."  He  went  up  to  her  couch  and  stood  beside 
it,  and  his  manner  became  as  tender  as  before  it  had  been 
severe. 

*'  My  dearest  father,"  and  she  took  his  hand  affectionately, 
"  there  is  nothing  really  the  matter." 

"  You  talk  too  much :"  he  looked  at  Mr.  Lester  distrast- 

"  Mr.  Lester  has  only  been  here  a  few  minutes,"  said  Mil- 
dred, smiling. 

"  One  minute  is  quite  enough  for  mischief,  Mildred.  I 
give  Mr.  Lester  credit  though  for  not  doing  intentional  harm." 

"  Not  any  harm  at  all,  1  hope,"  said  Mildred ;  "  his  visits 
always  do  me  good." 

"  Yet  I  must  t;Jje  him  from  you,  my  child.  Mr.  Lester, 
have  you  a  few  minutes  to  spare  for  my  study  ?" 

"  As  many,  Sir,  as  you  may  desire  j"  and  the  General'a 
mipatient  glance  caused  Mr.  Lester  to  rise  at  the  same  instant. 


CLEVE    HALL.  221 

They  passed  tlirougli  the  hall,  and  went  up  stairs.  General 
Vivian's  private  room  was  on  the  same  floor  as  his  bed-room. 
Mr.  Lester  remarked  that  the  steps  were  a  difficulty  to  him, 
otherwise  he  might  have  been  a  man  of  fifty-five  rather  than 
seventy-five.  Some  ordinary  parish  business,  no  doubt,  was 
to  be  discussed,  yet  the  General's  manner  when  he  closed  the 
door,  and  sat  down  in  his  great  arm-chair,  motioning  to  Mr. 
Lester  to  place  himself  ojiposite,  betokened  something  more 
than  ordinary.  For  a  few  seconds  he  said  nothing,  but  open- 
ing the  drawer  of  his  library  table,  searched  in  it  for  some 
paper  which  it  seemed  he  wanted.  It  was  soon  found.  General 
Vivian's  papers  were  in  such  order  that  he  used  often  to  boast 
that  he  could  place  his  hand  upon  any  one  in  the  dark.  His 
old  military  precision,  indeed,  was  to  be  seen  in  all  his  arrange- 
ments, and  joined  with  it  there  might  possibly  have  been  dis- 
covered traces  of  the  carefulness  which  some  had  even  ventured 
to  terai,  though  most  unjustly,  penuriousness.  The  furniture 
of  this,  his  private  room,  was  homely.  A  dark,  common 
carpet,  in  parts  completely  faded,  covered  the  floor;  a  large 
square,  library  table,  old-fashioned,  with  innumerable  drawers 
and  long  projecting  legs,  filled  the  centre  of  the  apartment; 
around  it  were  shelves,  not  filled  merely  with  books,  but  with 
small  boxes,  packets  of  parchments,  and  papers ;  whilst  a  few 
good  prints  hung  on  the  wall,  and  near  the  mantel-piece,  close 
to  the  chair  which  the  General  usually  occupied,  was  a  small, 
graceful  minature  of  a  very  lovely  woman. 

Mr.  Lester  took  up  a  book  to  while  away  the  spare  minutes. 
The  General  glanced  at  him  keenly.  "  In  a  hurry,  I  am 
afraid,  Mr.  Lester?     Pardon  me,  I  won't  keep  you  long." 

"No  hurry.  Sir,  for  myself;  only  for  others." 

"  Still  I  may  ask  for  a  few  minutes.  An  old  man's  claims 
will  not  be  many  or  long." 

"  Yours  will  be  first  always  with  me,  Sir,  if  possible.  Pray 
don't  hurry  yourself." 

"  I  could  not  if  I  would,  Mr.  Lester ;  the  time  for  haste 
is  past."  He  placed  a  packet  of  papers  before  him,  and  slowly 
drew  the  arm-chair  nearer  to  the  table.  Mr.  Lester  saw  that 
the  exertion  was  too  much  for  him,  and  yet  he  could  not  help 
him.     The  offer  would  have  been  considered  an  insult. 

"  I  have  been  looking  over  my  papers,  Mr.  Lester;  a  work 
for  all  to  do  at  stated  times,  especially  a  man  of  my  age." 

"  Certainly,  Sir.  I  wish  your  example  were  more  generally 
followed.     It  would  save  a  threat  deal  of  trouble." 


•222  CLEVE    HALL. 

^'  And  worse  than  tnmLlc ;  evil  of  all  kinds.  If  my  fatli(>i 
and  my  grandfather — but  never  mind  that, — you  are  in  a 
lni,.,-y— only  I  will  take  the  oj)portunity  of  sayinti  one  thinp;. 
You  are  likely  to  be  on  the  spot  when  1  die,  and  Mildred  will 
look  to  you.  Poor  child  !  she  has  uo  one  else."  A  pause, 
and  a  clearin2;  of  the  throat,  but  thu  voice  which  continued 
was  unchanp;ed.  "■  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  any  confusion. 
1  have  tried  to  prevent  it.  All  that  will  be  necessary  for — 
whoever  comes  after  me,  will  find  all  papers  relating  to  the 
estate  in  the  escritoire,"  and  he  pointed  to  an  ebony  cabinet 
which  stood  by  the  side  of  the  lire-place  ;  "  all  personal  papers 
in  the  desk  above  it;  all  parish  and  public  papers  in  the  largo 
drawers  of  this  table.  I  did  not  mean  to  take  up  your  time 
with  these  details,  only  lest  I  should  forget,  I  mention  them. 
Now  to  business.  Time  goes  on,  Mr.  Lester;  what  do  you 
intend  to  do  with  Clement  V 

Mr.  Lester  might  have  been  startled  by  the  abruptness  of 
the  question,  but  he  did  not  show  it.  "  Mrs.  Campbell  wishes 
him  to  go  to  College,  Sir." 

"  And  she  has  the  means  of  providing  for  him  there.  That 
settles  the  point.     I  trust  the  boy  will  do  well." 

"  I  trust  so  too,"  replied  Mr.  Lester,  "but  Mrs.  Campbell 
has  not  the  means  of  fully  providing  for  him ;  and  that  is  our 
difficulty." 

"  Then  what  do  you  intend  to  do  witli  him  ?  I  understood 
from  what  you  said  that  it  was  settled." 

"Settled,  if  wishes  could  settle  anything,"  replied  Mr. 
Lester,  "  But  we  thought  that  you  would  not  be  angry,  Sir, 
if  we  were  to  ask  you  for  assistance ;  and  I  meant,  when  the 
fitting  time  arrivecl,  to  make  application  to  you." 

The  General  bit  his  lip.  "  Mrs.  Campbell  has  taken  every 
step  hitherto  without  consulting  me,  and  I  don't  see  why  she 
should  look  for  help  now.  But  I  am  not  going  to  dispute  the 
matter,  Mr.  Lester;  the  boy  shall  go  to  college.  It  shall 
never  be  said  that  I  neglected  my  grandson.  He  shall  have 
an  allowance  from  me.  His  debts  I  leave  to  others." 
<'  We  may  hope.  Sir,  that  they  may  not  be  incurred." 
No  reply  for  some  seconds.  The  General  looked  carefully 
over  the  paper  of  memoranda  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 
Then  he  continued : — "  He  will  have  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year  paid  to  him  by  me,  from  the  time  be  enters 
College,  till  he  is  one-and-twenty.  If  I  die  before,  he  will 
receive  it — out  of  the  estate."     His  keen  eye  glanced  at  Mr, 


CLEVE    HALL.  ZZ6 

Lester;  apparently  wliat  lie  read  tliere  was  not  pcrfectl}'  satis- 
factory. "I  wish  to  put  liim  in  the  way  of  providinsi-  f(ir 
himself,  Mr.  Lester;  I  wish  to  give  him  a  chance.  Am  I 
not  right  V 

"  He  deserves  more  than  a  chance,  Sir,"  was  the  bold  reply. 

The  General's  eyes  flashed.  "  His  deserts  must  be  left  to 
my  judgment.  It  is  my  intention,  besides,  to  leave  in  your 
hands,  as  trustee,  the  sum  of  five  thousand  pounds,  to  be 
applied  by  you  as  shall  seem  most  likely  to  further  his 
prospects." 

jMr.  Lester  sat  immovable ;  it  might  almost  have  seemed 
that  he  had  not  heard. 

"  I  look  to  you  as  Clement's  guardian,"  continued  the 
General.  "  I  believe  that  3'ou  have  done,  and  will  do,  all  that 
can  be  done  to  serve  him.  His  ruin  will  never  be  attributed 
by  me  to  you." 

''  I  suppose  I  ought  to  thauk  you.  General  Vivian,"  replied 
Mr.  Lester,  somewhat  proudly.  "  You  have  shown  a  confi- 
dence in  me  which  I  hope  I  sufficiently  valu,e.  I  should  be 
glad  to  be  able  to  carry  out  your  wishes  ;  but  I  can  scarcely 
think  they  will  long  continue  to  be  yours." 

''  And  why  not  ?" 

"Because  I  trust, — forgive  me  for  the  liberty  I  am  taking, 
— that  consideration  may  show  you  sufficient  cause  to  alter 
them,"  replied  Mr.  Lester. 

The  General  bent  forward  in  his  chair,  and  frowned.  "  JMr. 
Lester,  I  asked  assistance  in  furthering  my  views ;  not  advice 
as  to  how  they  should  be  formed." 

"  I  am  aware  of  it,  Sii*.  I  have  no  right  to  intrude  advice ; 
but  when  I  am  called  upon  to  be  a  party  in  any  act,  I  am 
bound  to  consider  whether  it  be  equitable." 

"  Equitable  !  Mr.  Lester" — and  the  General's  foot  moved 
up  and  down  rapidly — "  You  are  a  clergyman,  and  the  friend 
of  years.  You  had  not  dared  else  to  insinuate  such  a  re- 
proof." 

"  I  would  not  insinuate,  Sir.  I  hate  insinuations.  I  would 
say  openly, — your  grandson  deseiTCS  more  at  your  hands." 
The  words  were  free,  yet  Mr.  Lester's  manner  betokened  deep 
respect;  and  the  self-controlled  spirit  of  General  Vivian  re- 
ceived the  check  which  was  intended. 

"  We  won't  discuss  that  point.  I  ask  again,  are  yuu  will- 
ing to  accept  the  office  of  trustee  for  Clement  and  for  his  sis- 


224  CLEVE    HALL. 

fcrs'l'  I  propose  to  leave  tliciu  that  Avliicli  will  sotare  for  each 
a  imiiilrcil  a  year." 

31  r.  Lester  was  silent. 

"  'J'lieii  1  will  turn  to  some  oflier  friend.  Clood  niomini;, 
Mr.  liester;  I  regret  that  I  have  intruded  upon  your  time;" 
and  the  (Jeneral  rose,  thouiih  with  dilheulty,  and  st(H)d  with 
his  tall  ligure  drawn  \\\)  liau_i::htily,  thouiih,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, he  supported  himself  by  resting  one  hand  upon  the 
table. 

Mr.  Lester  rose  also,  but  not  proudly.  His  eyes  were  bent 
upon  the  ground  in  deep  thought.  When  he  spoke,  his  words 
came  with  some  degree  of  hesitation  : — "  General  Vivian,"  he 
said,  "you  have  always  been  a  most  kind  friend  to  me, — 
more  than  a  friend.  In  hours  of  sorrow  I  have  looked  to  you 
as  to  an  elder  brother,  and  I  could,  yes,  from  my  heart,  I  could 
obey  you  reverently;  but  I  have  another  office,  which  com- 
pels me  to  speak  freely ;  in  consideration  of  it  I  am  svire  you 
will  hear  me.  May  1  entreat  you  not  to  decide  on  this  mat- 
ter hastily  ?  It  'involves  many  interests,  and  great  princiiiles 
of  right  and  justice." 

"It  does;  right  and  justice  to  my  people;  my  tenants, 
and  the  poor." 

"  Can  an  unjust  act  at  the  beginning  work  jxistice  in  the 
end  T'  inquired  Mr.  Lester. 

The  General's  eye  sparkled  with  indignation.  "  Who  yen- 
tures  to  say  that  it  is  unjust  ?"  he  exclaimed  ;  his  tone  deep- 
ening with  the  effort  at  self-restraint.  "  My  property  is  my 
own ;  I  may  do  with  it  as  I  will." 

"  We  are  stewards,"  replied  Mr.  Lester;  "  not  owners." 

"  Let  it  be  so ;  as  steward,  I  do  that  which  is  for  the  good 
of  those  intrusted  to  me." 

"  When  we  devise  means  and  instruments  of  our  own,  and 
put  aside  those  which  God  has  marked  out  for  us,  we  cannot 
be  sure  that  we  are  working  for  good,"  was  the  reply. 

"I  don't  understand  your  philosophy,  Mr.  Lester;  neither 
do  I  wish  to  hear  more  of  it.  Justice,  not  philosophy,  is  my 
object." 

"  Justice  without  mercy  will  cease  to  be  justice,"  replied 
Mr.  Lester;  "  for  it  is  not  the  justice  of  God." 

"  Again  I  say,  Sir,  I  don't  understand  you,  I  seek  the 
good  of  my  people.  I  will  not  undo  the  work  of  a  life  at  its 
last  moment." 

"  I  should  be  the  last  person  to  wish  you  to  do  so,"  replied 


CLEVE    HALL  225 

Mr.  Lester ;  "  but  I  fear  we  err  when  wc  take  the  ordering  of 
the  future  into  our  own  hands.  You  are  afraid  to  trust  your 
grandson, — you  think  it  right  to  choose  another  heir.  \\hQ 
is  to  guarantee  that  he  shall  be  irreproachable  ?  Or,  if  he 
should  be,  who  can  answer  for  his  children  ?" 

The  General  took  out  his  watch.  "  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Les- 
ter, I  have  gone  over  the  ground  often  :  my  resolution  is  un- 
alterable. Time  presses.  I  have  an  engagement  at  three 
o'clock.  If  you  decline  accepting  the  office  I  propose,  I  will 
make  other  arrangements." 

Again  Mr.  Lester  deliberated.  "  I  hope,"  he  said,  at 
length,  ''to  send  a  written  answer,  if  not  to-morrow,  yet  in 
the  course  of  a  few  days.     I  trust  that  may  satisfy  you." 

The  General  bent  his  head  coldly.  ]Mr.  Lester  continued  : 
"  And  I  will  ask  now  to  be  allowed  a  few  more  words  upon 
another  point.  Clement  would  be  safer  removed  from  Kn- 
combe." 

"  Unquestionably :"  there  was  an  accent  of  scorn  in  the 
word. 

"If  he  is  to  go  to  the  University  he  should  first  have  a 
private  tutor." 

"  I  should  suppose  so." 

"  Then  may  we  look  to  you  for  assistance  in  that  case,  as 
well  as  for  supporting  him  at  College  ?" 

The  General's  countenance  changed.  He  slowly  walked 
up  to  the  ebony  cabinet,  removed  the  desk  which  stood  upon 
it,  and  placed  it  upon  the  table.  "  Mr.  Lester,  pray  sit  down 
for  a  few  moments  longer;  I  won't  detain  you  more."  He 
unlocked  the  desk.  "  My  private  accounts,"  he  murmured, 
in  a  tone  of  apology. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  give  you  so  much  trouble,  Sir.  I  did  not 
in  the  least  mean  to  press  the  question  as  to  details — merely 
to  know  generally  whether  we  might  look  to  you  for  help." 

"  A  certain  sum  has  been  set  aside.  I  don't  know  how 
much  of  it  remains."  The  General  took  out  several  packets 
of  paper,  and  laid  them  on  the  table. 

"  I  am  giving  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  Sir,  and  there  is 
really  no  hurry." 

"  No  time  like  the  present."  The  desk  was  drawn  nearer 
the  edge  of  the  table,  and  the  General  sat  down. 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door;  he  turned  round  quickly 
accidentally  pushed  the  desk,  and  it  fell :  the  papers  wero 
scattered  on  the  ground. 


22G  LEVE    HALL. 

Mr.  Lester  stooped  to  pick  them  up.  "  Come  in,"  said 
the  General,  and  a  servant  entered.  "  Farmer  Brown  wishea 
to  spoak  to  you,  Sir." 

"  Let  him  wait." 

"  I  tuKl  him  you  were  engaged,  Sir,  and  he  lias  waited  :« 
quarter  of  an  hour.      lie  says  he  must  go  now." 

GeniM-al  Vivian  never  scut  business  away;  it  was  one  of  his 
most  rigid  principles. 

"  ^Vell !  show  him  into  the  ante-room.  Mr.  Lester,  I  will 
return  immediately.     1  am  afraid  you  have  a  tiresome  task." 

"  The  papers  are  all  disarranged,  Sir.  Can't  I  help  you 
in  replacing  them  ?" 

''No,  thank  you,  no;"  and  the  General's  manner  was  al- 
most nervous.  "  Pray,  only  lay  them  on  the  table  j  nothing 
more."  lie  stopped  as  he  was  leaving  the  room,  and  looked 
back,  apparently  about  to  give  some  other  direction ;  but  he 
altered  his  mind,  and  left  the  room,  saying  that  he  should  re- 
turn directly. 

^Ir.  Lester  gathered  up  the  papers.  They  were  for  the 
most  pai't  letters,  all  carefully  placed  together  in  separate  pack- 
ets and  endorsed.  Mr.  Lester's  eye  unintentionally  caught 
the  superscription  of  two.  One  was  Edith  Vivian,  with  the 
date  of  her  birth  and  death.  The  other  only  bore  the  initials 
E.  B.  v.,  and  consisted  apparently  not  of  letters  only,  but  of 
loose  papers  and  bills.  It  was  larger  than  any  of  the  rest, 
and  arranged  with  less  attention  to  order.  It  seemed  as  if  it 
had  been  put  together  in  some  moment  of  confusion,  and  fas- 
tened hastily,  for  the  string  round  it  was  loose,  and  when  Mr. 
Lester  put  it  down  a  few  of  the  papers  slipped  out.  He  had 
only  just  gathered  them  together,  and  taken  up  the  string  to 
secure  it  more  firmly,  when  the  General  returned.  Mr.  Les- 
ter laid  the  letters  down  again.  The  General  cast  a  hasty 
glance  upon  the  table.  "  Never  mind,  Mr.  Lester,  that  will 
do,  thank  you,"  and  he  laid  his  hand  nervously  upon  the 
packet.  "  Old  letters,  as  you  see.  It  mayn't  be  worth  while 
to  keep  thern,  but  one  never  knows  of  what  use  such  things 
may  be."  There  was  an  attempt  at  unconcern  in  his  tone  and 
manner,  but  it  did  not  deceive  Mr.  Le.ster;  and  his  hand  trem- 
bled so  much  that  he  was  unable  to  collect  the  papers,  and 
instead  of  placing  them  in  order,  scattered  them  again.  He 
tried  to  stoop.  Mr.  Lester  picked  them  up  for  him,  and  as 
he  restored  them  the  General  seized  and  looked  at  thorn 
I'arefully. 


CLEVE    HALL  227 

''  That  wlli  do,  Mr.  Lester,  thank  you.  There  are  no  more  ; 
Duly  your  handkerchief  which  you  have  just  dropped." 

Mr.  Lester  took  up  liis  handkerchief,  and  with  it,  unknown 
to  himself,  a  paper  which  was  lying  under  it.  Both  were  put 
into  his  pocket. 

The  General  allowed  the  rest  of  the  papers  to  remain  on 
the  table.  His  manner  was  confused.  "I  don't  know  what 
we  were  talking  of,"  he  began.  "  Oh,  yes  !  I  remember,  my 
private  accounts.  He  opened  a  book  which  had  been  taken 
from  the  desk.  '■'■  I  look  upon  Clement,  Mr.  Lester,  as  the 
son," — he  hesitated :— "  the  inheritance  of  the  child  of  a 
younger  son  is  all  he  has  any  right — absurd  !  there  is  no  right 
• — it  is  all  that,  on  any  principle,  could  be  demanded  of  me. 
Let  me  see,"  and  he  unclasped  the  book.  "  A  private  tutor 
you  say.      He  will  not  have  that  under  two  hundred  a  year." 

"  No,  Sir,  certainly  not.  Travelling,  dress,  pocket-money, 
we  may  reckon  as  fifty  more." 

*'  And  well  if  he  keep  within  it !"  The  General  sat  down, 
and  began  to  calculate  with  a  pencil  and  paper.  "  Seventy 
pounds  per  annum,  Mr.  Lester,  is  the  sum  I  can  afford." 

Mr.  Lester  tried  not  to  look  disappointed. 

''  You  expected  more  ?" 

"I  had  hoped  that  half  the  expense  of  the  tutor  might 
have  been  taken  by  you,  Sir.     The  additional  thirty  pounds 

is  a  large  item "     He  did  not  seem  to  know  how  to  finish 

the  sentence. 

"  It  is  a  large  item  in  the  affairs  of  any  person  who  wishes 
to  be  exact.     My  income  is  appropriated  ;  I  can't  alter  it." 

The  tone  admitted  of  no  further  reply.  Mr.  Lester  only 
said,  "  I  must  thank  you,  Sii",  in  Clement's  name." 

"  No  thanks  are  required.  I  desire  to  do  justice — ^justice," 
the  word  was  repeatedly  emphatically — "by  every  one." 

Silence  followed.  The  General  occupied  himself  in  restor- 
ing the  papers  to  their  place  in  the  desk.  Mr.  Lester  looked 
round  for  his  hat,  yet  in  a  way  which  showed  that  he  waa 
unwilling  to  go.  The  General  closed  the  desk  and  took  out 
his  watch. 

"May  I  put  the  desk  back  for  you.  Sir?"  asked  Mr. 
Lester. 

"  Thank  you,  no."  General  Ylvian  carried  it  himself,  and 
then  returned  to  the  fire-place. 

*■'•  If  I  have  said  anything  to  offend  you,  Sir,"  said  Mr 


2'28  cr,r:vK  hall. 

Lester,  ''  T  trust  you  will  lorgivc  me;   it  was  very  far  fruiii  luj 
iiiteiitiiiii.'' 

"  Tliero  is  no  offence,  3Ir.  Lester.      You  aet  upon  a  j>riiici 
plo  of  duty  :  I  try  to  do  tlie  same  myself." 

"  And  1  should  have  hoped,  therefore,  Sir,  we  might  have 
been  likely  to  agree." 

"  I  have  not  found  that  a  natural  consequence  iri  life.  Few 
persons  have  agreed  with  me  in  my  notions  of  duty."  1'he 
shadow  of  a  smile  crossed  Mr.  Lester's  face,  but  Gcucral  Vi- 
vian, without  perceiving  it,  went  on,  rather  in  an  excxilpatory 
tone,  "  I  find  the  moral  code  of  many  uicn  lax,  Mr.  l^ester. 
They,  on  the  contrary,  think  mine  strict.  I  have  no  wish  to 
(juarrel  with  them;  but  when  a  principle  has  been  adoi)ted 
from  conviction  of  its  truth,  I  can  never  think  it  right  to  sacri- 
lieo  it  to  expediency." 

"  To  expediency  !  No,  Sir,  never  !"  exclaimed  IMr.  Lester. 

''  The  reasons  which  I  have  heard  brought  forward  in  o])p()- 
•sitiDii  to  my  own  views  have  always  been  those  of  expediency," 
continued  the  General. 

"  Expediency  is  a  word  bearing  many  interpretations,"  ob- 
served 31  r.  Lester. 

"  Only  one  in  my  ideas. '  It  is  the  sacrifice  of  duty  to 
individual  feelings  or  individual  interests."    ' 

"  It  would  be  my  own  definition,"  continued  Mr.  Lester; 
"but  duty  must  always  be  crnipounded  of  two  virtues  balanc- 
ing each  other.  It  can  scarcely  be  considered  expediency  to 
endeavor  to  keep  the  balance  equal." 

"  You  are  metaphysical,  Mr.  Lester.  My  idea  of  duty  is 
of  a  law.     I  don't  understand  the  principle  of  two  laws." 

"  Yet  both  the  moral  and  the  natural  world  are  governed 
by  opposing  laws,"  said  Mr.  Lester.  "  Love  and  fear,  justice 
and  mercy,  cause  the  beings  of  the  spiritual  creation  to  move 
harmoniously  round  the  one  Centre  of  their  worship,  as  the  two 
ciiunteracting  forces  cause  the  planets  to  move  round  the  sun." 
He  was  almost  sorry  when  he  had  said  it,  the  Giencral  looked 
BO  impatient.  They  parted  rather  coldly,  but  when  Mr.  Les- 
ter was  gone  General  Vivian  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and 
thoujiht. 


CLEYE    HALL.  229 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


ENCOMBE  GRANGE  was  a  larire,  lonely,  white  house, 
standing  beyond  the  village,  and  fronting  the  open  com- 
Qiou  terminated  by  the  cliffs.  It  was  a  very  dreary-looking 
place.  Originally  it  might  have  been  picturesque,  for  the 
building  was  low  and  irregular,  with  a  singular  high  turret  at 
one  corner,  which  had  been  aclded  as  a  kind  of  observatory  by 
one  of  its  former  possessors ;  but  now  all  beauty  was  lost  in 
the  appearance  of  decay.  Nearly  all  the  trees  which  once 
surrounded  it  had  been  cut  dowu.  Two  or  three  indeed  re- 
mained near  the  turret,  but  these  shut  out  the  view  over  the 
sea  which  at  one  time  had  been  an  attraction,  whilst  others 
more  exposed  to  the  south-west  winds  were  not  only  stuntetl 
in  their  growth,  but  had  that  feeble,  oppressed  look  which 
always  belongs  to  trees  bent  in  one  direction.  There  was 
some  attempt  at  a  flower-garden  and  plantation  near  the  house, 
but  all  was  in  a  neglected  state ;  the  branches  of  the  shrubs 
spreading  at  their  will,  and  covering  the  narrow  gravel  walks, 
which  were  dark  and  green  with  grass  and  weeds ;  the  flower- 
beds completely'  overrun,  and  poultry,  dogs,  cats,  aud  occasion- 
ally a  horse  or  a  cow,  straying  at  their  pleasure  over  the 
unmown  lawn.  Within,  the  scene  was  equally  desolate.  A 
great  portion  of  the  house  was  shut  up,  and  in  the  rooms 
which  were  used  the  walls  were  hidden  by  the  scraps  of  papers 
of  difl'crent  generations ;  the  paint  was  worn  from  the  wains- 
coting; and  near  the  kitchen  and  servants'  apartments  even 
the  floors  were  unsafe.  One  parlor  there  was  comparatively 
comfortable,  with  a  carpet,  and  a  horsehair  sofa,  and  a  great 
arm-chair,  and  some  convenient  corner  cupboards ;  and  this 
was  Captain  Vivian's  dwelling  room,  and  here  he  lived  con- 
tentedly ;  for  as  long  as  he  could  sit  by  a  blazing  fire  if  he 
was  cold,  and  eat  when  he  was  hungry,  aud  i-est  when  he  was 
weary,  and  form  his  plans  of  adventure  or  speculation  without 
interruption,  he  cared  nothing  for  the  elegancies  of  life,  and 
little  for  what  many  would  have  considered  ordinary  comfort. 
He  was  a  man  sunk  below  anything  approaching  to  refinement 
of  taste ;  and  amongst  the  many  secondary  supports  which 
keep  us  from  utter  ruin  in  this  world,  perhaps  none  are  more 
powerful,  or  more  deeply  to  be  lamented  Avhcn  lost,  than  taste. 
Vet  it  was  not  because  he  cared  for  money  in  itself,  that  he 


230  CLEVE    IIAI.L. 

Strove  to  <!;;iiii  it  by  evil  means,  and  lived  without  tlie  advaii 
tajrcs  which  he  had  the  lucans  of  obtaiiiiiitjj.  He  hajd  run 
tlirouuh  a  large  fortune,  and  still  was  carelessly  extravagant  as 
rcnardod  personal  self-indulgence ;  but  a  consciousness  of 
di">-radatiou  from  guilt  had  led  him  to  seek  forgetfulness  in 
low  company  and  low  habits,  till  the  claims  of  his  position  as 
a  gentleman  by  birth,  and  in  some  degree  by  education,  Lad 
been  totally  put  aside. 

It  would  be  long,  and  perhaps  tedious,  to  tell  how  it  wa,s 
that  he  had  reached  this  point.  There  was  the  traditional 
tone  of  his  branch  of  the  family  to  begin  with;  and  reputation 
has  more  to  do  with  the  first  formation  of  character  than  we 
may  be  inclined  at  the  first  glance  to  imagine.  Then  there 
was  evil  example,  bringing  opportunity  for  evil,  and  followed 
by  the  loss  of  personal  self-respect ;  and  when  this  is  gone, 
moral  descent  is  very  rapid.  Yet  there  had  been  occasions 
when  the  past  might  have  been  redeemed.  Even  the  luost 
hardened  villain  can  pi'obably  look  back  to  some  period  of  his 
life  when,  like  the  angel  arresting  the  steps  of  the  prophet, 
repentance  has  met  .him  in  the  way;  and  perhaps  had  the 
secrets  of  Captain  Vivian's  lieart  been  made  known,  it  would 
have  been  found  that,  even  with  him,  there  Avas  one  period 
from  the  recollection  of  which  he  turned  in  hasty  anguish, 
with  the  feeling  that  the  example  of  his  wife  had  opened  to 
him  the  gates  of  Heaven,  but  that  he  had  wilfully  refused  to 
enter  in. 

Possibly  the  influence  of  a  diiferent  mind  might  have  had 
more  powder  over  him.  Mrs.  Vivian  was  extremely  gentle, 
imjilicitly  obedient,  except  where  religious  duty  was  concerned ; 
but  she  had  been  made  religious  by  the  means  of  sorroAV, — 
disappointment  in  him ;  and  this  had  given  a  mournful  tone 
to  her  character,  and  at  times  irritated  him.  It  Avas  the 
excuse  which  he  made  to  himself,  when  at  the  time  of  her 
death  remorse  had  for  a  few  weeks  been  busy  with  him.  Now 
he  made  no  excuses;  he  showed  his  feelings  about  her  only 
by  refusing  to  hear  her  name  mentioned.  It  was  the  one 
especially  painful  barrier,  amongst  the  many  which  existed, 
between  him  and  llonald. 

For  Ronald  lived  upon  his  mother's  memory;  not  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  world,  scarcely  even  to  that  of  Mr.  Lester 
and  Bertha  Campbell ;  the  rare  occasions  when  he  did  give  a 
momentary  vent  to  his  feelings  were  as  the  sudden  rush  of  the 
tempest,  which  passes,  and  all  is  calm  as  before.     But  in  a 


CLEXE   nALL.  231 

reiDote  part  of  tlie  dreary  old  liousc  tliore  was  a  small  cliamber 
which  he  had  fitted  up  with  the  few  articles  belonging  to  his 
mother  that  had  escaped  the  wreck  caused  by  bis  lather's 
extravagance ;  and  there,  with  her  picture  before  him,  her  few 
books  arranged  in  a  small  Indian  cabinet,  her  work-box,  and 
writing-case,  and  a  few  special  ornaments  placed  on  the  little 
table  which  had  stood  beside  her  dying  bed,  llonald  had 
formed  for  himself  a  sanctuary  which  her  spirit  seemed  still 
to  inhabit,  and  from  which  a  softening,  chastening  influence 
had  been  permitted  to  reach  him  even  in  his  most  reckless 
moments. 

It  might  have  been  seutimentalism  with  many;  but  Ronald, 
in  his  loneliness,  and  the  heaviness  of  his  self-reproach,  had 
no  room  for  sentimentality,  even  if  the  feeling  had  not  been 
totally  foreign  to  his  nature.  He  never  showed  his  little 
room  to  any  one ;  he  never  even  spoke  of  it ;  he  scarcely  ever 
realized  to  himself  why  he  reverenced  it.  The  feeling  had 
grown  up  unconsciously  from  the  time  when,  on  their  first  ar- 
rival at  the  Grange,  and  when  the  grief  for  her  loss  was  still 
fresh,  the  few  things  which  belonged  to  her  had  been  placed 
in  it.  Captain  Vivian  avoided  it;  the  servants  did  not  trovxble 
themselves  to  enter  it ;  and  llonald  himself  never  thought  of 
inhabiting  it.  Only  at  times,  when  his  heart  was  most  op- 
pressed, he  would  pause  before  the  door,  and  it  would  seem  as 
if  he  still  could  hear  her  voice  within ;  and  occasionally, — 
very  rarely,  for  Ronald's  fits  of  devotion  had,  till  lately,  been 
as  imcertain  and  varying  as  the  winds, — he  would  venture  in, 
gently,  reverently,  as  if  intruding  upon  the  presence  of  the 
dead,  and  kneeling  down,  confess,  in  the  simple  words  which 
she  herself  had  taught  him,  the  guilt  which  burdened  his  cou- 
sciencc,  and  the  fears  which  lay  heavy  upon  his  heart. 

These  were  his  calmest  and  best  moments.  In  his 
hours  of  desperate  remorse — and  they  were  far  more  fre- 
fjuent^ — he  would  no  more  have  intruded  himself  into  that 
quiet  chamber  than  he  would  have  thrust  himself  unbidden 
and  unprepared  as  a  partaker  in  the  holiest  rites  of  the  Church. 
Rut  even  then,  the  remembrance  was  not  without  its  influ- 
ence. It  was  as  if  there  was  still  a  resting-place  within  his 
reach — a  haven  which  he  might  hope  to  attain  when  the  storm 
was  past ;  and  when  Ronald  spoke  of,  or  thought  of  home,  in 
the  sense  which  renders  it  so  dear  to  all,  his  imagination  re- 
curred not  to  the  empty  chambers  of  the  almost  deserted  house, 
Dor  to  tlie  parlor  where  his  futher  was  wearing  away  life  in 


2j2  cleve  hai,l. 

coarso  sc'lf-iiulultjenee, — nor  ovon  to  tlio  li;llc  room  in  llio  tiir- 
ri't,  with  its  rudo  uiicnrtaiiied  bed  and  nni^h  furniture,  -where 
he  had  piled  in  heaps  the  heteroircncous  articles  which  served 
him  for  use  or  for  amusement, — but  to  the  small  closet,  it 
could  scarcely  be  called  more,  in  which  his  mother's  spirit 
seemed  yet  lingerinir. 

Yes,  that  thought  had  saved  him  in  many  an  hour  of  temp- 
tation. For  Ronald's  life  had  been  far  less  guilty  than  in  his 
desjiairing  self-accusation  he  represented  it. 

He  had  seen  evil  often,  in  its  worst  and  most  debasing 
forms,  and  to  a  certain  extent  he  had  himself  mingled  with  it ; 
but  Captain  Vivian,  hardened  though  he  might  be,  would  not 
force  his  son  to  become  what  he  himself  was ;  and  Ronald  had 
many  times  escaped  the  actual  contamination  of  wickedness, 
which  yet  had  been  so  present  with  him  that  lie  could  not 
realize  to  himself  that  he  had  been  saved  from  it.  To  sepa- 
rate himself  from  his  father  seemed  impossible ;  and  when 
Captain  Vivian  sank,  Rcmald  felt  that  he  himself  had  sunk 
lilcewise.  Perhaps,  but  for  the  recollection  of  his  mother  he 
would  have  done  so. 

His  life  had  in  a  degree  been  happier  during  the  last  few 
weeks.  Before  that  time  his  refusal  to  tempt  Clement  to  dis- 
obedience had  caused  bursts  of  passion  which  were  often  ter- 
rific ;  but  now  he  was  left  more  to  himself  and  his  own  pursuits. 
A  change  had  taken  place  apparently  in  Captain  Vivian's 
schemes.  He  confided  them  more  to  Goff;  perhaps  he  felt 
that  he  had  to  deal  with  a  will  as  unbending  as  his  own,  and 
therefore  did  not  endeavor  to  alter  it;  perhaps — there  is  some 
redeeming  point  even  in  the  very  worst — the  one  humanizing 
feeling  yet  left,  his  aflfection  for  his  boy,  made  him  shrink  from 
implicating  him  in  the  guilty  plans  which  yet  he  would  not  relin- 
quish. Be  that  as  it  may,  since  the  abandonment  of  the  idea 
of  the  merchant  service  Ronald  had  been  suifered  to  cari-y  out 
his  own  wishes  for  the  employment  of  his  time  for  the  most 
part  undisturbed.  He  was  studying  now  not  for  pleasure  ;  it 
was  a  groat  effort  to  him,  and  the  escape  from  his  books  into 
the  free  air,  with  a  gun  or  a  fishing-rod  in  his  hand,  was  eager 
delight.  But  the  energetic  spirit,  once  turned  in  the  direc- 
tion of  self-discipline,  could  not  be  checked.  Bertha  had  given 
him  the  impulse  for  good,  Pdr.  Lester  had  suggested  a  few 
rules  for  its  direction,  ami  with  the  same  intensity  of  purpo.-e 
with  which,  if  commanded,  he  would  have  endeavored  to  ex- 
piate his  faults  by  bodily  penances,  did  he  now  attempt  to  fob 


CLEVE    HALL.  2o3 

ow  up  lliat  for  more  difficult  penance,  tlic  subjugation  of  the 
miud. 

He  was  happier, — yet  not  for  that  reason  at  rest.  3Ir. 
Lester  had  said  truly  that  there  was  a  cloud  over  him.  How 
indeed  should  it  be  otherwise  ?  the  foi'ther  he  advanced  on  the 
riiiht  path  himself,  the  more  sensible  he  must  necessarily  be- 
come that  his  father  was  moving  on  the  wrong  one.  This 
alone  would  have  been  enough  to  sadden  him,  but  Ronald 
could  never  forget  that  worse  might  be  behind  ; — that  fallen 
as  his  father  was  now,  there  might  be  darker  evil  hidden  hi 
the  past,  and  that  to  him  the  task  of  discovering  and  revealing 
it  had  in  a  certain  way  been  intrusted.  Therefore  it  was  that 
he  would  sit  alone  in  his  own  chamber,  or  pursue  his  solitary 
wanderings  over  the  wild  hills  and  by  the  lonely  shore, — shrink- 
ing from  companionship,  dreading  conversation, — and  though 
forced  to  live  with  his  father,  and  at  times  to  mingle  with  his 
associates,  yet  keeping  watch,  over  his  hidden  grief,  whilst 
anxiously  guarding  every  avenue  to  the  temptations  which 
might  lead  him  back  into  the  vices  of  which  he  had  repented. 

The  idea  which  thus  oppressed  him  had  first  been  sug- 
gested by  Bertha,  but  it  was  in  no  way  followed  up  by  her. 
After  that  one  conversation  which  bad  made  him  acquainted 
with  his  father's  history,  the  subject  had  never  again  been 
mentioned  between  them.  Probably  Bertha  repented  what  in 
her  eagerness  she  had  done,  perceiving  the  effect  of  the  dis- 
closure upon  a  spirit  sensitive  as  a  woman's,  and  impetuous  as 
a  man's.  At  any  rate  whenever  they  met,  which  was  but 
seldom,  it  was  only  to  exchange  the  confessions  of  sorrow  and 
penitence  on  the  one  side,  and  of  affectionate  interest  on  the 
other ;  whilst  Mr.  Lester  never  by  word  or  look  allowed  it  to 
be  supposed  that  he  considered  Ronald  in  the  slightest  degree 
involved  in  the  cause  which  he  had  so  much  at  heart. 

It  was  late  in  the  same  day  on  which  Mr.  Lester  had  been 
with  General  Vivian.  Ronald  had  been  out  upon  the  hills 
shooting;  Captain  Vivian  on  the  shore  and  at  the  Point,  for 
purposes  best  known  to  himself.  They  had  returned  about 
the  same  time,  and  Ronald,  wearied  and  yet  excited  by  his 
day's  sport,  was  dreading  less  than  usual  the  dinner  with  his 
father;  for  on  such  occasions  they  had  common  subjects  of 
interest  without  touching  upon  those  on  which  they  would 
have  been  likely  to  jar. 

Captain  Vivian's  countenance  also  wore  a  satisfied  expres- 
sion, and  he  erected  his  son  without  the  uncomfortable  re- 


234  CLEVE   HALL. 

proat'lios  which  were  generally  his  vent  for  any  disappoint- 
iiiciit.  lloiiald  asked  no  questions.  The  success  or  defeat  of 
liis  father's  projects  brouirlit  him  almost  Cijual  pain.  He  was 
only  thankful  to  be  allowed  to  eat  his  dinner  in  peace,  and  to 
narrate  the  progress  of  the  day's  sport  without  iuterruj)tion. 
\\'hen  dinner  was  over  he  was  preparing,  as  usual,  to  go  to  his 
own  room,  when  Captain  Vivian  stopped  him.  "Oif!  my  boy  ? 
Where  to?" 

■  "To  read  or  to  rest,"  replied  Ronald;  "I've  had  despe- 
rately hard  work." 

"  Head  ?  Pshaw  1  What  are  you  talking  of?  I  thought 
you  never  troubled  yourself  about  reading.  Why  can't  you 
stay  here  ?" 

"  I  can  if  you  wish  it,"  was  Ronald's  cold  reply. 

"  Oh  !  if  you're  tired,  it's  another  rmittcr.     Be  off." 

"  I  am  not  so  tired, — at  least  I  shouldn't  be  going  to  bed 
for  the  next  three  hours,"  said  Ronald. 

"  Only  brooding  over  books.  Why,  Ronald,  you're  worth 
something  more  than  that." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  am  worth,  Father,"  replied  Ronald  ; 
*'  I  have  never  been  tried  yet." 

''At  the  old  story?  Wanting  to  do  something?  Per- 
chance I  may  put  you  in  the  way  of  it  before  long." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Ronald,  in  the  same  unmoved  tone; 
and  he  walked  a  few  paces  towards  the  door. 

"  A  game  at  backgammon  would  be  better  for  you  than 
books  after  a  day's  work,"  said  Captain  Vivian. 

"  I  had  rather  read,  thank  you,  Father,  unless  we  play 
without  betting." 

A  cloud  of  displeasure  cros.sed  Captain  Vivian's  face ;  but 
be  only  said,  "  Well,  bring  out  the  board.  If  Goff  comes  in 
we  may  have  a  turn." 

Ronald  placed  the  backgammon-board  by  his  father's  side, 
and  went  to  fetch  his  books.  He  brought  them  back  with  his 
writing  desk,  but  he  looked  very  little  inclined  for  study.  His 
father  laughed  at  him  as  he  threw  the  books  upon  the  table, 
whilst  a  tired  sigh  escaped  him. 

"  Why  you  foolish  fellow,  one  would  think  you  were  going 
to  turn  clergyman.  What  d'ye  think  now  is  the  good  of  all 
that  rubbish"?" 

'•  I  suppose  it  may  turn  to  good  some  day,"  replied  Ronald. 
"  At  any  rate  it's  belter  to  do  that  than  nothing." 

•'  Books  don't  iiKike  a   man's   fortune,  trust  uie  for  that. 


CLEYE    HALL.       '  235 

Ronald.  Why,  tliere  are  secrets — and  to  1)G  had  for  the  pur- 
chase too — which  give  a  man,  in  one  hour,  what  books  wouldn't 
give  hiiu  in  a  whole  life." 

"And  to  be  lost  as  quickly  as  gained/'  replied  Ronald; 
"  that's  not  in  my  way,  Father." 

"  But  it  used  to  be.  Time  was  when  you  were  as  daring  a 
fellow  as  any  in  Christendom,  and  would  have  got  at  anything 
that  could  be  had  at  a  leap.  That's  the  good  of  consorting 
with  women  and  clergymen, — they  would  eat  the  spirit  out 
of  a  lion."  Captain  Vivian's  color  rose,  and  he  muttered  to 
himself,  "  But  it  won't  last  though."  Then,  speaking  aloud, 
he  added  :  "  I  say,  Ronald,  it's  time  you  should  be  otf.' 

"Where,  Father?" 

''^Anywhere;  if  you  mean  to  seek  your  fortune  for  your- 
self." 

"  It  is  what  I  wish,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Ay  1  wish  in  your  own  way,  but  never  in  mine." 

"  I  wish  to  obey  you,  Father,  in  all  things  in  which  I  may," 
replied  Ronald,  speaking  very  quietly,  though  his  clenched 
hands  showed  the  effort  which  it  cost  him. 

"  Well,  then  ;  I  take  you  at  your  word.  Our  little  vessel 
at  the  Point  goes  oif  again  next  week;  try  your  hand  at  com- 
mand. The  fellows  will  be  glad  enough  to  have  you  on 
board." 

Ronald's  flashing  eye  showed  how  much  his  own  inclina- 
tion accorded  with  the  suggestion,  yet  he  hesitated. 

"It's  an  offer  that  I  should  have  jumped  to  clutch  at  your 
age,"  continued  Captain  Vivian.  "  But  boys  now  aren't  what 
boys  were,  nor  men  neither." 

"  Regular  service  is  more  to  my  taste." — Ronald  began  the 
sentence  boldly,  but  the  change  in  his  father's  countenance 
made  even  his  spirit  quail. 

Captain  Vivian  burst  forth  in  a  storm  of  passion.  "  It  was 
his  will,"  he  said.  "  He  had  waited  long  enough,  keeping 
Ronald  tied  at  home  to  be  a  burden  to  him ;  and  now  the 
time  was  come  for  action,  and  act  he  must  and  should."  And 
Ronald  acquiesced  in  the  determination ;  but  again,  and  with 
less  hesitation,  insisted  upon  the  desirableness  of  the  merchant 
service. 

Just  then  there  was  a  loud  knock  at  the  outer  door;  but 
the  fierce  words  still  raged,  whilst  Ronald,  bending  down, 
ivith  his  head  averted,  looked  stoadfastly  into  the  fire.  As 
the  kii(;ck  was  repeated  the  seciond  lime,  however,  he  rose, 


i>:3G  CLFA'E    HALL, 

anil  was  about  to  close  tlic  parlor  door,  wlion  he  was  stopped 
by  the  entrance  of  Goff,  and,  to  his  consternation,  Clemcut 
Vivian.  , 

Captain  Vivian's  Avrath  subsided  in  a  moment;  perhaps 
that  was  the  reason  why  Ronald  felt  his  to  be  rising,  lie 
advanced  before  his  father  to  meet  Clement,  and  they  shook 
hands;  but  Clement's  manner  was  coldly  nervous,  and  he 
glanced  reproachfully  at  Gotf,  as  if  he  had  been  betrayed  into 
society  which  he  had  not  expected. 

Goff  came  into  the  room  with  the  manner  of  a  person  quite 
at  his  ease,  and  sat  himself  down  by  the  fire,  motioning  to 
Clement  to  seat  himself  also.  "  You  didn't  expect  company 
to-night,  eh,  Captain  ?" 

*'  Not  quite  so  many.  But  Clement,  my  boy," — and  Cap- 
tain Vivian  put  his  hand  across  the  table,  and  sliook  Clement's 
heartily, — "you're  welcome,  anyhow.  What's  the  business, 
Goff?" 

"No  hurry;  it's  a  cold  night,  and  the  fire's  comfortable;" 
and  he  drew  his  chair  in. 

"  What  brings  you  out  to-night,  Clement?"  asked  Ilonald, 
in  a  careless  tone. 

Goff  answered  for  him, — "  A  bold  spirit,  to  be  sure,  Ilo- 
nald, that's  ashamed  to  sit  over  the  fire  like  a  girl." 

Ilonald  turned  round  upon  him  rather  roughly, — "  You'll 
be  careful  what  you  say,  if  you  please ;  let  us  hear  your  own 
tale,  Clement." 

"  Ask  him  how  he  escaped  from  his  master?"  said  Goff, 
sneeringly. 

"  I  will  ask  him  if  Mr.  Lester  knows  he  is  here?"  rephed 
Ilonald. 

Captain  Vivian  broke  in  upon  the  conversation, — "  What 
signifies  ?  lie's  here,  and  he's  going  to  stay.  Here's  a  health 
to  you,  my  lad  !  and  we  won't  ask  what  brings  you  hero,  only 
we  are  glad  to  see  you." 

All  this  time  Clement  had  been  sitting,  shyly,  at  a  little 
di.stance  from  the  table,  casting  furtive  glances  round  the 
room.  Now,  as  Ronald  fixed  his  keen  eye  upon  him,  he  an- 
swered with  apparent  indifference, — "I  was  at  the  Hall  with 
a  message,  and  Goff  and  I  met  coming  back,  so  we  bore  each 
other  company." 

"  It's  not  tlie  nearest  way  from  the  Hall  to  the  village," 
said  Ilonald,  (juickly. 

The  color  rose  in  Clement's  cheek,  but  Goff  helped  him. 


CLEVE    HALL.  tloi 

1'  If  it  isn't  quite  as  near  it's  twice  as  good ;  and  it's  better 
going  two  than  one  on  a  winter's  evening,  and  so  Master  Cle- 
ment and  I  must  needs  trudge  it  together." 

"  And  take  a  restiug-phice  on  your  way,"  observed  Captain 
Vivian ;  "  and  a  very  good  notion,  too.  It's  the  first  time, 
but  we  hope  it  won't  be  the  kst." 

llonald  stood  moodily  by  the  fire,  and  there  was  a  momen- 
taiy  silence.  Goff  took  up  the  dice  from  the  backgammon- 
table,  and  tossed  them.  Captain  Vivian  called  out  the  num- 
bers, and  laughed  as  they  came  down  right.  ''  Now,  Clement, 
try  your  luck ;"  and  Clement  did  the  same,  watching  with 
some  eagerness  to  see  the  result. 

"  Bravo !  5-ou'll  do,  I  see.  Now,  once  more ;  ten  to  one 
you  are  right." 

Clement  was  again  partly  successful. 

"  Luck's  with  him,"  said  Goif.  "  It's  born  with  some 
people." 

"  Just  opposite  to  what  it  is  with  him,"  said  Captain  Vi- 
vian, pointing  to  Ronald;  *' he  never  made  more  than  one 
good  hit  in  his  life." 

"  Try,  Ronald,"  said  Clement,  rather  eagerly. 

"  Thank  you,  no." 

"He's  afraid,"  said  Goff;  ''he  hates  losing." 

"  Oh  !  nonsense,  Ronald,"  exclaimed  Clement.  "  There's 
no  betting;  what  does  it  signify?" 

"  Some  folks  are  too  proud  to  be  beaten  in  anything,  bet- 
ting or  no  betting,"  said  GofF. 

"  I  see  no  fun  in  it,"  said  Ronald ;  "  and  if  I  did,  I  wouldn't 
do  it  now." 

"Wouldn't!  why  not?"  Captain  Vivian  turned  to  him 
angrily. 

Ronald  hesitated  for  a  second,  then  he  said,  "  Because  I 
wouldn't  be  the  one  to  lead  Clement  to  that  which  may  be  his 
ruin.  There's  a  warning  for  jou,  Clement;"  and  he  walked 
out  of  the  room. 

Captain  Vivian's  anger  evaporated,  so  at  least  it  might 
have  seemed,  in  a  laugh,  whilst  Goff"  threw  up  the  dice  again, 
and  made  Captain  Vivian  guess,  without  any  reference  to  Cle- 
ment, who  sat  by  uneasily. 

The  clock  struck  eight,  and  he  started  up.  "  I  ought  tc 
lie  at  home;  they  expected  me  back  at  seven." 

"  And  you  keep  your  woi'd,  do  you  ?"  said  Goff.  "  That's 
more  than  you  do  with  me  " 


2."j8  clkve  hall. 

'•  (MoMU'iit  will  be  out  of  Icadiiifjstriiiirs  before  Ions:;,  I'll 
vnituro  to  say,"  observed  Captain  Vivian,  lii^litly.  "  I  wish 
I  could  hope  as  much  of  my  boy.  lie's  turned  quite  tauie, 
and  won't  even  take  a  cruise  for  a  few  days." 

"  ^^''on't  llonald  take  a  cruise  ?"  inquired  Clement,  with 
some  casxerness. 

"Not  he;  thougli  I  offered  to  put  liim  in  command  of  a 
vessel.  But  the  very  life's  gone  out  of  him;  he'll  do  nothing 
but  sit  at  home  over  his  books.  Old  Ocean  was  but  a  fancy 
with  him,  after  all." 

"  As  it  is  with  a  good  many  youngsters,"  continued  Goff. 
"  Well  enough  on  a  fine  day,  with  a  sea  which  a  baby  might 
sleep  on ;  but  come  a  storm,  and  they're  nothing  but  pale- 
faced  cowards.  I'll  bet  you  anything  you  like^  though,  that 
I  bring  llonald  round." 

"  Volunteers,  not  pressed  men,  for  my  money,"  was  the 
reply. 

"Ay;  volunteers,  if  they  are  to  be  bad."  G-off  glanced 
at  Clement.  "  I  say.  Master  (Element,  if  I  don't  go  with  you, 
can  you  find  your  way  home  ?" 

"  I  should  hope  so.  I  have  been  over  the  fields  often 
enough,"  said  Clement,  proudly. 

"  And  been  in  time  for  roll-call,"  said  Captain  Vivian, 
laughing.     "  Why,  Clement,  what  will  you  say  for  yourself?" 

"  The  truth,  if  I  am  asked,"  replied  Clement. 

"  The  truth,  to  be  sure.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  Vivian  not 
speaking  the  truth  ?" 

"  Only  it's  a  bit  awkward,  sometimes,"  muttered  Goff.  "  We 
shan't  see  you  here  again,  I  suppose,  Master  Clement,  when 
the  truth's  out  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  tliat.  I  go  wbere  I  choose,  and  return  w^hen 
I  please." 

"  They'd  think  you  liad  been  at  some  dire  miscliief,  here," 
said  Captain  Vivian,  carelessly,  as  he  threw  the  dice  into  the 
air. 

"  That  was  a  curious  calculation  you  were  making  witli 
those  things  the  other  night,  Captain,"  said  Goff.  "  I'm  not 
up  to  figures.      What  did  Ronald  say  to  it  ?" 

"  llonald  has  no  head  for  figures  neither;  he  always  hated 
them." 

"  Very  curious  it  was,"  repeated  Goff,  in  a  musing  tone. 

"  What  was  curious  ?  A  calculation  ?  I  can  calculate 
pretty  well,"  said  Clement,  eagerly. 


CLEVE    HALL.  239 

Goff  looked  at  liiui  with  prcteuJed  amusement  "  Of  course, 
you  can  do  everything." 

"  I  have  calcuhited  very  difficult  questions,"  continued  Cle- 
ment. "  I  believe" — and  he  touched  his  forehead — "  I  havo 
a  mathematical  head." 

"  Possibly !  But  you  mightn't  be  able  to  do  this.  Be- 
sides, there  isn't  time,  and  you  are  wanted  at  home." 

"  Nonsense,  to  send  him  away  !"  observed  Captain  A^ivian. 
"  Why  shouldu't  he  stay,  if  he  likes  it  ?" 

'*  I'll  try  the  calculation  for  you  at  home,  if  jow  choose  to 
give  it  me,"  said  Clement.  He  spoke  eagerly,  longing  to  show 
his  superiority  to  Ronald. 

"Thank  you;  but  I  can't  give  it  you  just  in  a  minute. 
You  will  be  coming  by  this  way  another  time,  I  dare  say,  and 
then  I'll  show  it  you.  But  your  master  would  be  after  you, 
if  you  were  to  take  it  home." 

The  word  master  always  touched  Clement  on  a  tender  point. 
He  instantly  began  a  lengthened  explanation  of  his  true  posi- 
tion with  Mr.  Lester;  that  he  was  his  father's  friend,  and  was 
kind  enough  to  teach  him  some  things;  but  that  he  had  no 
authority  over  him  beyond  the  hours  of  study ;  whilst  Captain 
Vivian  and  Goff  listened  with  an  incredulous  air,  which  only 
irritated  him  the  more  to  assert  his  independence.  When  he 
had  ended,  Goff's  exclamation  was,  "Deeds,  not  words,  Mas- 
ter Clement.  Show  us  you  are  your  own  master,  and  we'll 
believe  you ;  but  don't  waste  such  a  quantity  of  breath  about 
it.  Why,  you  are  afraid  now  to  go  home  for  fear  of  the  rod  !" 
And  he  laughed  heartily. 

Captain  Vivian  took  Clement's  part,  and  found  fault  with 
Goff  for  ridiculing  him,  saying,  "  that  it  was  very  natural  that 
such  a  young  fellow  should  be  kept  under.  It  wasn't  every 
boy  that  could  be  what  Ronald  was  at  sixteen — though  he  had 
gone  back  sadly  of  late." 

This  told  more  keenly  upon  Clement  than  all  Golf's  coarser 
ridicule,  especially  when  it  was  followed  by  some  characteristic 
anecdotes  of  Ronald's  dauntless  bravery,  which  goaded  his 
envy,  whilst  they  excited  to  the  utmost  his  admiration.  A 
pause  came  at  last,  and  Clement  summoned  resolution  to  go, 
without  any  more  last  words  of  boasting.  Captain  Vivian 
w(!nt  with  him  to  the  door.  His  tone  was  much  softened,  and 
there  even  appeared  to  be  some  interest  in  it.  "  We  shall  see 
you  again,"  he  said;  "  and  if  you  could  look  in  and  help  Ro- 
nald and  me  about  that  calculation,  we  should  both  thank  you. 


2-10  CLEVE    HALL. 

I've  no  lioad  for  it;  neither  lias  lie.  But  don't  come,  if  you 
tliink  you  will  j;et  into  disgrace.  Good-night!"  They  shook 
hands  cordially,  and  Clement,  though  .shrinking  from  the  word 
di.sgrace,  walked  away,  saying  to  himself,  that  Captain  Vivian 
had  certainly  hccn  condemned  unfairly.  lie  had  still  the 
spirit  of  a  gentleman  in  him,  when  he  chose  to  e.\crt  it. 


CIIAPTEll  XXYII. 


Ct  APTAIN  VIVIAN  returned  to  the  parlor,  carefully  locked 
;  the  door,  tried  another  which  led  through  suuie  passages 
to  a  distant  wing  of  the  house,  and  then  going  up  to  Goff,  who 
was  bending  down  over  the  fire,  with  his  hands  spread  out  to 
warm  them,  exclaimed,  "  He's  caught !" 

"  Ay  !  thanks  to  me  !"  was  Goff's  rather  surly  reply  ;  and, 
without  looking  up,  he  added,  abruptly,  "and  high  time;  the 
game  will  be  up  soon  !" 

Captain  Vivian  moved  so  as  to  confront  him.  "  Up  !  What 
d'ye  mean  ?"  His  tone  was  hollow,  though  the  words  were 
uttered  calmly. 

"We  were  fools/'  continued  Goff,  '^mad  fools!  He  has 
escaped  us !" 

"  Edward  Vivian  !  Ha!"  And  a  strong  hand  clutched 
the  shoulder  of  the  rough  fisherman,  till  it  must  have  been 
actual  pain.  "  No  need  for  fierceness.  Captain,"  continued 
Goff,  disengaging  himself.  "  It  was  luck  that  might  have 
befallen  any  one.  When  you  put  me  upon  the  track,  I  fol- 
lowed it;  and  if  I'd  met  him  that  night,  we  should  soon  enough 
have  come  to  an  issue.  But  who  was  to  make  me  guess  his 
sneaking  ways?  You,  yourself,  said  that  we  might  rest  con- 
tent, for  that  if  it  was  he,  he  would  be  back  again  at  Encombe 
before  a  week  had  passed  over  our  heads.  He's  in  London 
now :  never  mind  how  I  found  it  out,  but  'tis  true." 

A  long  pause  followed.  Captain  Vivian's  face  was  pale 
with  fear  and  auger. 

"  It  may  go  hard  with  us,  if  the  old  General  and  he  make 
one  again,"  he  said  at  length  in  a  low,  deep  voice. 

Goff  took  up  his  words.     "  Hard  with  us  ?    Put  them  once 


CLEVE    HALL.  241 

together,  and  tlie  sooner  old  ocean  roars  between  us  and  tbLs 
part  of  the  world  the  better." 

"  He  must  be  kept  at  bay. 

"  Easier  said  than  done.  It's  one  thing  keeping  a  man  at 
bay,  when  of  his  own  accord  he  takes  to  the  Indies ;  and  an- 
other, when  he  thinks  fit  to  show  his  face  in  England.  I  warn 
you,  Captain,  the  time's  at  hand  when  Eucombe  Grange  may 
be  too  hot  to  hold  you." 

"  You  are  in  for  it  yourself,  too,"  was  the  sharp  rejoinder. 

"Not  as  principal ;  that  makes  all  the  difference." 

"You  swore  to  the  handwriting,"  said  Captain  Vivian. 

"  And  got  five  hundred  pounds  for  my  pains,  and  little 
enough  for  the  jeopardy.  But  it's  you,  Captain,  that's  to  be 
troubled  for.     There's  none  of  them  will  have  an  eye  to  me." 

Captain  Vivian  leant  his  head  upon  his  hand  in  deep 
thought,  whilst  Goff  threw  himself  back  in  the  arm-chair,  with 
the  attitude  of  a  man  who  feels  that  he  has  the  upper  hand 
in  the  affair  under  discussion. 

"  It's  best  always  to  look  matters  full  in  the  face,"  he  cou- 
tinned,  composedly.  "  The  game  is  one  of  chances.  First 
of  all,  the  paper  may  have  been  destroyed." 

Captain  Vivian  started  iip.  "May?  A  hundred  to  one 
that  it  is.  The  old  General  was  too  mad  with  anger  to  keep 
it.     It  told  against  his  honor." 

"  Then  the  forgery's  safe." 

"  If  I  hadn't  thought  so,  do  you  think  I  would  have  set 
fijot  in  Enconibe  again  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Goff.  "When  more  than  a  dozen  years 
had  gone  by,  and  Edward  A^ivian  was  in  Jamaica,  and  at 
daggers  drawn  with  his  father;  why  shouldn't  you?  If  there 
wa.s  danger,  Avhy  there  was  safety  too.  You  were  at  hand  to 
watch,  and  might  start  at  a  moment's  notice.  You'd  have 
lost  a  capital  opening  for  trade,  if  you  had  let  fear  come  in  the 
way  of  settling  here.  No,  no;  all  that's  been  done  is  well 
enough ;  but  things  are  altered  now ;  and  since  we  are  reckon- 
ing chances,  we  mustn't  forget  there's  a  risk  on  the  other  side. 
Tbe  paper  may  be  forthcoming." 

Captain  Vivian's  knees  trembled,  and  he  sat  down. 

"  Let  Edward  Vivian  and  his  father  meet,"  continued 
Goff,  "  and  it's  an  even  chance  that  you  are  done  for." 

"  If  the  paper's  gone,  there's  no  legal  proof,"  said  Captain 
Vivian. 

"And  so  no  mischief!"  exclaimed  Goff.  ''Why,  msn, 
11 


242  CLKVE    IIAIJ.. 

you're  an  iiliot.  Think  of  Edward  Vivian  at  tlio  Hall,  lord 
and  nias^ter,  with  the  grudge  rankling  in  his  breast.  If  ho 
can't  have  revenge  in  one  way,  trust  him  to  have  it  in  another. 
The  story  will  be  blazoned  over  the  country ;  even  your  own 
jieuple  will  take  it  up ;  there'll  be  a  hundred  eyes  spying  at 
you,  and  Edward  Vivian  himself  set  to  ruin  you,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  General.  How's  the  trade  to  go  on  then  ?  and  what 
kind  of  life,  think  you,  we  shall  lead?  Do  as  you  will. 
Captain,  yourself,  you'll  not  find  me  sitting  down  quietly  with 
a  foe  at  my  very  door.  Let  him  set  one  foot  in  the  Hall,  and 
I'm  off." 

"  It  migbt  be  the  best  plan,  anyhow,"  said  Captain  Vivian, 
thoughtfully.  His  assent  was  evidently  unacceptable  to  (loff, 
who  answered  with  a  look  of  cool  contempt.  "  And  will  you 
please  to  tell  me,  then,  why  you  ever  came  here,  since  you're 
to  be  off  at  the  first  fright?" 

"  I  came  because  it  would  be  a  good  speculation,  and  we 
might  make  the  thing  answer.  I  didn't  reckon  that  Edward 
Vivian  would  be  back  like  a  ghost  from  the  grave." 

"  Well !  and  hasn't  it  answered  ?  Aren't  we  carrying  on 
as  pretty  a  business  as  a  man  might  wish  for ;  plenty  of  hands 
to  help  us;  and  the  place  just  fitted  for  it?  I  tell  you, 
Captain,  if  you  cut  the  cable  you'll  be  swamped." 

"  Po.ssibly." 

"  Certainly ;  as  sure  as  I  stand  here.  There's  no  hope  but 
to  stick  by  Encombe  to  the  last." 

"  With  a  view  of  Botany  Bay  beyond." 

"  Shame  on  you.  Captain.  There  isn't  a  fellow  belonging 
to  us  who  wouldn't  cry  craven  if  he  heard  you." 

*'  I  am  only  doing  what  you  yourself  advised,"  was  the 
reply,  "  looking  the  matter  fully  in  the  face." 

"  And  what's  the  end  of  that  ?  You  look  your  enemy  in 
the  face  one  minute,  to  knock  him  down  the  next." 

Captain  Vivian  started.  "  I've  enough  on  my  hands 
already,"  he  said,  quickly.      "  I'll  have  no  more." 

Guff's  laugh  was  one  of  cold,  fierce  sarcasm.  ''  Chicken- 
hearted  !  are  yc.  Captain  ?  Yet  I've  known  you  calculate 
even  to  a  penny  the  chance  of  a  man's  ruin.  But  don't  be 
afraid.  I'll  keep  your  neck  safe  enough  from  a  halter,  though 
may  be  it  will  be  a  more  difficult  matter  to  keep  your  hands 
from  fetters."  Then,  as  he  saw  Captain  Vivian  wince  at  the 
suggestion,  he  added  in  an  under  tone,  "  A  pistol  shot  would 
Kettle  it  quick  enough  between  me  and  my  enemy  any  day; 


CLEYE    nALL.  243 

but  if  you  aren't  up  to  that,  you'll  surely  be  thinking  of  some, 
thina;  else. — The  boy  might  help  us,  but  for  your  marplot 
llonald." 

"  We  must  be  rid  of  him."  Captain  Vivian  spoke  coldly 
and  sternly. 

"  I  told  you  that  long  ago.  When  the  liodge  folks  came  to 
Encombe,  said  I,  it  isn't  a  fit  place  for  llouald.  Have  you 
warned  him,  that  if  you  fall  he  falls  too?" 

"  Warned  him  !  llonald  ?"  Captain  Vivian's  eyes  flashed 
•with  indignation,  and  then  a  sudden  paleness  overspread  his 
face,  and  rising,  he  paced  the  room  in  great  agitation. 

Goff  went  on  without  noticing  him.  "  It's  not  so  much 
the  ill-will  against  the  son  as  against  the  grandson,  which  will 
work  our  way.  There's  prejudice  enough  against  Edward 
Vivian  already,  and  if  Clement  is  thought  to  be  running  the 
same  course,  why,  the  thing's  done ;  and  the  Hall  door  shut 
against  them  both,  let  who  will  say,  open.  It's  what  you  and 
I  have  said  hundreds  of  times,  and  acted  upon  too." 

"  And  what's  to  be  done  now,  then  ?"  inquired  Captain 
Vivian,  moodily;  "we  can't  do  more  than  we  have  to  keep  up 
the  old  prejudice." 

"  It  must  be  more  than  a  prejudice  for  our  purpose,"  replied 
G  off. 

"  You  are  too  deep  for  me,  man;"  but  Captain  Vivian  sat 
down  again  as  if  prepared  to  listen. 

"  Why,  look  ye.  Suppose  we  get  Clement  into  the  net," 
and  Goff  "laughed  mockingly; — "not  a  difficult  task  with  the 
boasting  young  sparrow,  he's  close  upon  it  now ; — suppose,  I 
say,  we  make  him  one  of  us,  set  him  on  a  sail  to  the  coast 
yonder,  and  to  return  with  our  men.  A  hint  to  the  preventives 
will  put  them  on  the  look-out,  and  not  much  harm  done  to  us 
— only  the  loss  of  a  keg  or  two  if  we  manage  properly.  But 
the  skirmish  will  do  our  work  with  the  General.  He'll  take 
a  vow  as  deep  as  when  he  thought  that  his  son  had  paid  away 
his  money  before  ever  he  got  into  possession  of  it,  and  never  a 
step  will  Clement  Vivian,  or  his  father,  set  in  Cleve  Hall  from 
that  hour." 

Captain  Vivian  was  thoughtful.  "The  plan  may  do,"  he 
said,  "  to  cut  short  Clement's  prospects,  but  not  to  stop  Edward 
Vivian's  return,  and  the  possibility  of  our  discovery." 

"  Why,  the  one  goes  with  the  other,"  exclaimed  Goff;  "or 
if  it  doesn't,  still  we  have  the  game  in  our  own  hands.  Trust 
me,  and  I'll  bring  the  youngster  into  such  a  plight,  that  his 


244  CLEVE    HALL. 

father  would  buy  his  safety  with  five  times  the  sum  you  took 
from  liim ;  and  ho  should  too,  if  I  had  to  deal  with  him." 

"  You  mean  the  boy  no  harm  ?" 

"  Harm  !  I'll  make  him  worth  twenty-fold  what  he  is  now  ! 
I'll  show  him  what  work  is;  put  a  little  spirit  into  him! 
Why,  his  father  mi<;ht  thank  me,  if  'twere  only  for  niakina:  a 
man  of  him.  But  let  there  be  harm;  you  might  just  think 
to  yourself  that  you're  only  squaring  matters.  If  you  get 
Element  on  your  side,  it's  clear  as  a  pike-staff  to  me,  that 
they  are  getting  Ronald  on  theirs." 

The  insinuation  stung  Captain  Vivian  to  the  quick,  and  he 
burst  out  in  a  torrent  of  vehement  indignation.  Goff  allowed 
his  anger  to  have  free  scope,  every  now  and  then  adding  fuel 
to  the  flame,  by  recalling  circumstances  connected  with  the 
old  enmity  between  him  and  Mr.  Vivian. 

He  had  his  own  purposes  to  gain  in  stirring  up  ihe  rank- 
ling spirit  of  revenge.  Years  before,  he  had  left  Mr.  Vivian's 
service  on  a  charge  of  dishonesty,  which,  being  proved,  though 
not  brought  forward  in  a  court  of  justice,  had  entirely  de- 
stroyed his  character.  The  feeling  of  enmity  was  the  first  tie 
between  him  and  Captain  Vivian.  They  had  carried  out  their 
schemes  together,  and  hitherto  successfully.  For  some  years 
Goff  had  remained  with  Captain  Vivian  as  his  confidential 
servant,  or  rather  adviser ;  afterwards,  circumstances  had  led 
him  again  to  Encombe,  wlaere  he  entered  upon  his  smuggling 
life,  and  at  last  persuaded  Captain  Vivian  to  join  him. 
The  speculation  was  more  profitable  to  him  than  to  Captain 
Vivian  ;  it  suited  his  daring  temperament ;  and  putting  aside 
any  personal  feeling  of  ill-will,  he  would  have  hazarded  very 
much  rather  than  relinquish  it.  As  it  was,  with  the  possi- 
bility of  being  discovered  as  an  accomplice  in  an  act  of  for- 
geiy,  and  the  certainty  that,  if  IMr.  Vivian  were  once  restored 
to  his  father's  favor,  there  would  be  an  enemy  at  his  door, 
keeping  a  constant  spy  upon  his  proceedings,  it  was  no  wonder 
that  Goff's  fierce  nature  should  be  roused  to  projects  from 
which  the  more  calculating  spirit  of  Captain  Vivian  would 
liave  naturally  turned,  as  involving  risk  that  might  only  end 
in  greater  ruin.  Yet  the  feeling  of  revenge  for  the  wrongs; 
of  former  years  was  excited  without  difficulty;  and  though 
Goff,  if  left  to  himself,  would  doubtless  have  provided,  if 
necessary,  for  his  own  safety  by  shorter  and  more  desperate 
\iieans;    he  was  apparently  contented  now,  when   he   found 


CLEVE    HALL.  2i5 

C:ipt;im  Vivian  willing  to  take  in  the  project  he  had  proposed, 
and  to  discuss  the  steps  by  which  it  was  to  be  accomplished. 

On  one  point,  however,  there  was  no  discussion.  Konald 
was,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  be  removed  from  the  scene  of 
action ;  and  it  was  determined  again  to  tempt  him  by  the  ex- 
pedition in  which  he  had  already  refused  to  join,  and  which 
might  be  so  arranged  as  to  give  him  occupation  for  some  time 
on  the  opposite  coast.  In  his  absence  Clement  would,  as  it 
was  supposed,  be  led  without  difficulty  into  the  snares  laid  for 
hi  HI.  By  careful  arrangement,  the  means  of  making  terms 
with  Mr.  Vivian,  if  he  should  reappear  at  Encombe,  would 
then  be  in  their  own  power ;  and,  at  the  worst,  if  every  plan 
should  fail,  and  a  reconciliation  with  the  G  cneral  lead  to  an 
inquiry  into  the  past,  the  possibility  of  escape  was  always 
within  their  reach. 


CHAPTER  XXVIir. 


C1LE?dENT  VIVIAN  did  not  hurry  on  his  way  home, 
;  although  quite  conscious  that  he  was  late,  and  that  if 
questions  were  asked,  the  answers  required  might  be  awkward. 
He  delayed  for  that  very  reason ;  once  in  a  difficulty,  and  he 
seldom  had  moral  courage  sufficient  to  meet  it  face  to  face.  He 
had  been  sent  to  the  Hall,  as  he  had  stated,  on  a  message  to 
Ella,  and  had  been  met  by  GofF  on  his  return,  and  induced, 
partly  by  ridicule,  partly  by  the  love  of  adventure,  which  the 
snuiggler's  conversation  always  aroused,  to  go  considerably  out 
of  hi')  way,  through  by-paths  and  copses,  till  coming  suddenly 
upon  the  Grange,  he  was  taken  unawares,  and  lured  into  the 
house,  under  pretence  of  waiting  only  for  a  moment  with 
llnnald,  whilst  GofF  said  a  few  words  iu  private  to  Captain 
Vivian. 

There  was  not  very  much  to  shock  a  conscience  like  Cle- 
ment's in  all  this.  He  had  done  nothing — so  he  said  to  him- 
self— which  could  lead  him  into  mischief;  and  he  had  accus- 
tomed himself  too  much,  of  late,  to  slight  disobediences  of  a 
similar  kind  to  he  very  scrupulous  on  that  point.  And  yet 
he  was  uneasy.  There  was  no  exact  claim  upon  him  to  con- 
fcs.s,  for  no  strict  law  had  been  laid  down,  only  general  advice 


21G  CLEVE    HALL. 

•jivoii ;  ami  if  flicre  was  harm  in  GofF's  companionship  hg 
could  sav,  hnncstly,  that  he  had  not  sought  it.  Yet  sonio- 
thinu;  within  whispered  that  Mr.  Lester's  displeasure  W(mld 
be  greater  than  it  had  ever  been  before,  if  it  was  known  that 
he  had  actually  gone  into  the  Grange.  Hitherto  the  inter- 
course between  him  and  Captain  Vivian  had  been  confined  to 
Occasional  chance  meetings,  for  it  had  been  a  matter  of  polic-y 
not  to  tempt  him  to  any  glaring  act  of  disobedience.  Even 
at  the  time  when  he  had  been  most  friendly  with  Ronald, 
thoy  had  always  parted  company  at  the  shrubbery-gate.  Now, 
the  deed  was  done.  He  had  entered  within  the  charmed  walls, 
and  what  had  he  seen?  Nothing,  indeed,  to  tempt  him  to 
repeat  his  visit ;  yet  nothing  which,  to  his  ideas,  would  be  a 
reason  for  not  doing  so. 

Captain  Vivian  amused  himself  with  dice ;  but  he  did  not 
bet,  or  ask  Clement  to  bet;  on  the  contrary,  from  the  little 
that  had  passed,  it  seemed  as  if  he  rather  occupied  himself  in 
•  juestions  of  calculation  than  ot  profit :  certainly  he  had  upheld 
Clement  in  obedience,  instead  of  tempting  him  to  the  con- 
trary. A  reaction  began  to  spring  up  in  Clement's  mind ;  a 
sense  of  injustice,  such  as  before  had  made  him  cling  to 
llonald.  Captain  Vivian,  he  fancied,  had  been  unfairly  dealt 
with ;  Mr.  Lester  knew  little  about  him ;  his  Aunt  IJertha 
was  prejudiced.  They  could  not  see,  as  he  saw,  that  Captain 
Vivian,  being  Ronald's  father,  was  certain  to  have  some  of 
Ronald's  redeeming  qualities.  All  this,  and  much  more, 
passed  through  Clement's  mind,  with  some  show  of  reason. 
Only  one  thing  might  have  suggested  itself  as  a  reason  for 
doubting  the  correctness  of  his  conclusions,  he  could  not 
resolve  to  mention  his  visit  at  home,  still  less  to  Mr.  Lester. 
Many  were  the  excuses  he  made ;  that  it  would  be  cavislng  a 
fuss  about  nothing ;  exciting  groundless  suspicion ;  that  it 
was  no  fault,  being  only  the  result  of  accidental  circum- 
stances ;  these,  and  other  equally  sophistical  arguments,  such 
as  are  always  at  hand  to  tempt  us  to  follow  the  course  we 
like :  yet,  ever  as  Clement  repeated  them  to  himself,  his  own 
natural  honesty  of  heart  reproached  him  for  untruth,  and 
caused  him  to  linger  on  his  way,  repeating  again  the  reason- 
ing which  the  moment  before  he  had  imagined  was  quite  cod- 
clusLve. 

His  thoughts  were  engaged  in  this  manner  as  he  slowly 
wended  his  way  over  the  fields,  which  lay  between  the  Grange 
and  the  village,  when  he  perceived  in  the  twilight  a  figure 


CLEVE   HALL.  247 

which  he  had  little  difficulty  in  recognising  as  that  of  Ronald 
Vivian,  advancing  to  meet  him  from  a  cross  path.  lie  stopped, 
and  Ronald  came  up  with  him  quite  out  of  breath. 

"  Well,  Ronald,  what's  the  matter  now  ?  what  do  j'ou 
want  ?"  was  Clement's  first  inquiry,  spoken  rather  impatiently, 
for  his  spirit  was  still  rebelling  against  the  warning  which  had, 
unasked,  been  given  him. 

"  You  are  going  home,  aren't  you  I''  replied  Ptonald,  reco- 
vering himself.  "  I  suppose,  if  I  am  travelling  the  same  road, 
we  may  as  well  go  together." 

"  To-night  ?  What  is  3'our  business  ?  Is  there  an^^thing 
going  on  ?" 

"Nothing  that  you'd  care  to  hear  about.  I'm  not  going 
far.  But  you  had  the  start  of  me,  Clement ;  I  had  no  notion 
you  were  off." 

"I  stayed  longer  than  I  intended  as  it  was,"  replied  Cle- 
ment, "  but  you  are  wonderfully  anxious  for  my  company  to 
take  the  trouble  to  lose  your  breath  at  such  a  rate.  Just  now 
I  thought  you  had  made  up  your  mind  not  to  remain  in  the 
same  room  with  me;  you  were  out  of  it  as  soon  as  I  came  in." 

"  I  should  have  made  mischief  if  I  had  stayed,"  replied 
Ronald. 

"Mischief?  how?  what?" 

"  I've  a  tongue  in  my  head,  and  nine  times  out  of  ten  it 
runs  away  with  me ;  so  I  decamped." 

"  I  don't  see  what  there  was  to  make  it  run  away,  then," 
replied  Clement.  "  No  one  was  going  to  quarrel,  that  I  saw; 
I  am  sure  I  wasn't." 

"  I  wish  you  had  been.  Clement,  you'd  best  stand  at  arm's 
length  with  my  father.  There, — I  say  it,  that  would  sooner 
die  than  have  cause  to  say  it,  but  I  must." 

"  There  is  never  any  other  way  of  standing  with  him," 
replied  Clement.  "  It's  little  enough  that  I  see  of  him,  and, 
as  you  know,  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  set  my  foot  within 
the  Grange." 

"  Then  let  it  be  the  last  time." 

"  It  may  be  and  it  may  not  be ;  I  don't  choose  to  tie  my- 
self down ;  but  I  am  obliged  to  you,  Ronald,  for  your  hospi- 
tality, at  least." 

"  I  care  nothing  for  your  obligation,  one  way  or  the  other," 
exclaimed  Ronald,  imj)ctuously ;  "but  once  for  all,  Clement, 
if  you  wouldn't  rue  the  day  tliat  ever  you  came  to  Encombe, 


248  CLEVE    HALL. 

yini'll  keep  as  f;ir  from  the  Granj^^e  as  you  would  from" — and 
his  viiioe  sank — "  tlio  pit  of  destruction." 

Tlie  cau;cr  tone  of  his  deep  voice  struck  forcibly,  and  even 
awfully,  upon  Clement's  ear,  and,  grasj)ini;  llonald  by  the 
arm,  he  said,  earnestly,  "Ronald,  you  didn't  talk  in  that  way 
when  first  I  came  here." 

"  I  did  not  know  then  that  there  was  any  cause.  But 
don't  trouble  me,  Clement;  don't  ask  questions.  You  are  to 
be  off  soon,  aren't  you  ?" 

lie  tried  to  speak  lightly,  but  the  effort  was  unsuccensful, 
and  Clement  passing  by  the  question,  returned  to  the  former 
topic. 

"It  is  the  way  tlioy  all  talk  to  nic,"  he  said.  '^They  arc 
full  of  mysteries,  and  I  don't  choose  to  put  up  with  them.  I 
am  old  enough  surely  to  have  some  judgment  of  my  own.  I 
can  tell  right  fi'om  wrong,  as  well  as  they  can ;  and  if  I  don't 
see  that  things  are  wrong,  why  am  I  to  be  forced  to  give  them 
up?  As  for  your  father,  he  might  as  well  be  at  Nova  Scotia 
for  anything  I  get  from  him,  whether  good  or  bad ;  and  if  u 
man  doesn't  do  me  any  harm,  I  don't  think  I  have  any  reason 
to  think  he  means  to  do  it." 

"  You'll  argue  differently  one  of  these  days,"  was  the  reply. 

"Preaching,  are  you  ?"  and  Clement  laughed.  "  I  didn't 
know  that  was  one  of  your  gifts.  I  suppose  Aunt  Bertha  has 
p<it  you  up  to  it ;  come,  tell  me  now,"  and  he  laid  his  hand 
jdayfully  on  Ronald's  shoulder,  "hasn't  she  been  setting  you 
to  jaw  me  in  this  fashion?" 

Ronald  drew  back.  "  When  you  want  to  know  what  IMiss 
Campbell  says  to  me,  you  had  better  go  and  ask  her.  I  have 
said  my  say." 

Clement  stopped  him  as  he  was  turning  away.  "  Answer 
me  one  question,  Ronald.  If  you  were  in  my  place  shouldn't 
you  do  as  I  do  ?" 

Ronald  considered  for  a  moment,  and  answered  firmly, 
"  No." 

"  Then  what  should  you  do  ?"  Clement's  tone  betrayed 
considerable  pique. 

"  I  hope  1  should  act  the  part  of  a  brave  man,  not  of  a 
coward." 

"  Coward !" 

"  Coward,"  repeated  Ronald,  quietly.  "  I  would  have  my 
head  cut  off  before  I  would  be  trusted  and  betray  my  trust." 


CLEVE   HALL.  219 

"  I  am  not  trastcd.  It  is  tlie  very  tliiug  I  coiuplaiu  of; 
tlicy  ilo  not  trust  me." 

"  If  you  weren't  trusted  you  would  be  locked  up." 

"  You  are  mocking.  Lock  me  np  ?  As  if  any  one  had 
power  to  do  that !" 

"  Mr.  Lester  has  power  at  any  time." 

"  Physical  power.   Folly !  who  thinks  of  that  in  these  days  ?" 

"Honor  is  instead  of  power,  then,"  said  Ilouald;  "and 
honor  would  keep  me  from  deceiving  him." 

"  Ronald,  you  would  madden  a  saint,"  exclaimed  Clement 
"  I  tell  you  I  don't  deceive  him." 

"  Then  he  knows  everything  you  do.  He  will  hear  of 
your  having  been  at  the  Grange  to-night." 

"  Hear  !  if  he  asks.     I  wouldn't  tell  a  lie." 

"  And  I  wouldn't  act  one." 

"  I  don't  understand;  you  make  me  angiy ;  I  won't  stamf 
it !"  exclaimed  Clement,  in  a  fretful  tone  of  wounded  pride 
and  irritation.  "  I  vow,  if  it  weren't  for  old  days,  I  should 
think  you  had  come  just  to  insult  me,  and  give  me  the  oppor- 
tunity of  knocking  you  down." 

"Try,  if  you  will,"  replied  Ronald,  quietly,  and  perhaps  a 
little  contemptuously;  "I  shall  not  return  it."  But  he  added 
more  quietly,  "  Don't  let  us  make  fools  of  ourselves,  Clement, 
by  sparring  for  nothing.  You  know  I  don't  mean  to  insult 
you,  as  you  call  it." 

"  Then  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Simply  to  make  you  get  up  pluck  enough  to  be  honest; 
and  when  you  are  out  upon  parole^  not  to  break  it ;  and  when 
you  do  break  it,  to  own  it." 

The  question  seemed  to  strike  Clement  in  a  new  light. 
"  I  never  thought  about  that  sort  of  thing,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
at  school  before  I  came  here,  and  the  boys  there  thought  that 
pluck  was  to  risk  getting  your  own  way  without  being  caught." 

"I  suppose  they  did:  I  don't  know  about  school-boys;  I 
never  was  at  school." 

"Then  who  told  you  what  pluck,  and  honor,  and  such 
things  meant?" 

"  My  own  heart,  and — "  Ronald  added,  in  an  under  tone — ■ 
"things  I  was  taught  when  I  was  a  child." 

"  It's  all  very  fine,  Ronald,"  exclaimed  Clement,  after  a 
moment's  thought;  "but  twenty  to  one  you've  done  more 
'kWA  things  in  one  day  than  I  have  done  in  all  my  life." 

I'erhaps  it  was  well  for  Clement  that  the  dim  light  hid 


250  CLEVE    HALL. 

froiii  him  the  cliangc  wliich  passed  over  Ronald's  countenance 
IS  the  words  were  said:  he  might  have  reproached  himself 
too  bitterly.  Yet  even  without  seeing,  there  was  something 
deeply  touching  in  the  changed,  humbled,  faltering  tone  of 
the  reply.  "Yes;  oh,  yes,  Clement,  you  must  never  be 
like  me." 

Clement  seized  his  hand  kindly.  ''Cheer  up,  old  fellow  ! 
I'm  sure  I- didn't  mean  reproach.  If  you  did  twenty  bad 
.nings,  I  dare  say  I  should  have  done  a  hundred.  I  wasn't 
thinking  a  bit  of  boasting;  I'm  far  enough  off  from  that 
really." 

"  And  I  was  not  told;  I  never  betrayed  trust,"  continued 
Ronald,  with  something  of  his  former  energy. 

"  No,  of  course  you  didn't.  You  are  true  to  the  backbone. 
But  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  think  I  could  do  so  either." 

"You  mightn't  mean  it,  but  you  might  do  it;  and  vou 
will  if " 

"If  what?  out  with  it." 

"  If  you  don't  tell  Mr.  Lester  that  you  have  been  at  the 
Grange  to-night." 

"  I  don't 'see  that.     I  shall  tell  if  I'm  asked." 

"  Honor  is  in  telling  without  being  a.sked." 

"  Going  to  confession,"  said  Clement,  with  something  of  a 
sarcastic  laugh. 

"  If  it's  necessary." 

"  Yes,  if  it  is;  that's  the  point;  but  I'll  think  about  it." 

They  stopped,  as  if  by  mutual  consent.  Ronald  made  one 
more  effort.  "  Clement,  you  told  me  once  that  you  wished 
we  had  been  brothers ;  is  the  feeling  all  gone  ?" 

"Gone!  no;"  and  Clement  shook  his  hand  affectionately. 
"  I  would  wish  nothing  better  than  to  have  you  for  my  bro- 
ther; if  only  you  wouldn't  be  on  one  day  and  off  another  in 
the  way  you  are.     I  can't  understand  that." 

"  Then  if  we  are  as  brothers,  give  me  a  brother's  confi- 
dence, and  promise,  even  if  you  don't  see  the  necessity,  that 
you  will  tell  Mr.  Lester  where  you  have  been  to-night." 

Clement  hesitated, — began  to  speak, — was  silent  again, — • 
and  at  length,  after  grasping  Ronald's  hand  violently,  ran  off, 
3xclaiming,  "  I  hate  promises;  but  I'll  see  about  it." 


CLEVE    HALL.  251 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


C ELEMENT  reached  home  just  as  tea  was  being  made,  after 
;  a  dehiy  of  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  which  ,had  been 
very  trying  to  the  whole  party ;  and  paiticularly  so,  as  the 
two  children  had,  fur  once,  been  allowed  to  sit  up  for  the  late 
tea.  His  excuse  was  hasty  and  incoherent, — that  he  was 
kept  longer  than  he  had  expected  at  the  Hall,  and  had  walked 
back  rather  slowly ;  both  statements  being  true  in  the  letter, 
though  false  in  the  spirit.  Fanny,  who  was  the  make-peace 
of  the  party,  found  a  place  for  him  at  the  table,  and  provided 
him  with  a  plate,  but  every  one  else  treated  him  as  if  he  was 
in  disgrace ;  and  Bertha,  especially,  not  quite  understanding 
how  to  show  her  annoyance  with  one  individual,  except  by 
making  all  suffer,  sat  perfectly  silent,  except  when  eveiy  now 
and  then  she  asked,  in  a  tone  which  had  a  peculiarly  melau- 
choly  intonation,  whether  any  one  wished  for  more  tea. 

Louisa  occasionally  attempted  a  little  conversation.  Quick 
observation  was  teaching  her  tact ;  and,  besides,  there  was  a  love 
of  power  innate  in  her,  which  made  her  feel  pleasure  in  the 
consciousness  of  taking  the  lead  in  any  matter  however  small. 

"  How  was  Ella,  Clement  ?" 

"Oh!  pretty  well;"  and  Clement  cut  for  himself  a  large 
slice  of  bread. 

"  Had  she  been  out  to-day  ?" 

"  I  dou't  know;  I  didn't  ask  her." 

"  When  is  she  coming  home  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Campbell.  "  1 
can't  let  her  stay  away  much  longer." 

"  She  doesn't  want  to  come  home  yet,  she  says,  Grand- 
mamma." 

"  It  must  be  very  pleasant  to  sit  by  the  fire  all  day,  and 
read,"  observed  Fanny,  who  partook  largely  of  her  sister's  in- 
dolence. 

"Aunt  Mildred  won't  let  her  do  that,  I'm  sure,"  said 
Louisa.  "  It's  very  bad  for  Ella  not  to  go  out;  she  always 
gets  ill  if  she  doesn't  take  exercise." 

"  Louisa,  my  dear,  you  had  better  not  trouble  yourself 
about  what  is  good,  or  bad,  for  Ella,"  said  Bertha.  "  Give 
me  Grandmamma's  cup  for  some  more  tea." 

"  Just  half  a  cup,  my  dear;  not  so  much  sugar,  and  a  little 
more  milk,"  said  Mrs.  Campbell. 


252  CI.EYE    HALL. 

'I'hat  was  tln'  first  attempt  at  convorsation.  IJcrtha  pmirod 
uiit  the  tea;  then  put  too  much  sujjjar,  and  too  litth;  milk; 
then  too  much  milk,  and  too  little  water;  then  too  much 
water,  and  too  little  tea  ;  and  was  rewarded  by  hc:irin<2;  the 
beveraije  she  had  provided  pronounced  totally  uiidriiikablc.  A 
martyr  could  not  have  been  more  touchinj^  in  her  resi;^nati<.t.. 
Louisa  was  aware  of  the  fact;  and,  when  Aunt  Bertha  bet^aii 
the  concoction  a  second  time,  she  attempted  once  more  to 
arouse  the  dormant  energies  of  the  party  by  a  fresh  observa- 
tion. 

<'  What  a  heap  of  letters  went  to  the  post  to-dfvy  !  Po  you 
know,  Betsy  said  there  were  as  many  as  xiuac,  at  the  Rectory, 
could  carry." 

"I  don't  know  who  could  have  written  them,"  observed 
Mrs.  Campbell,  with  rather  a  sharp  glance  at  ]]crtha.  "  Writ- 
ing letters  is  a  great  waste  of  time,  unless  people  have  real 
business  to  write  about." 

"  There  were  three  of  Aunt  Bertha's,"  said  Fanny,  who 
had  a  remarkable  talent  for  mal-a-prnpos  observations. 

Bertha  colored,  and  looked  annoyed.  Louisa  came  to  hcv 
rescue  : — "  They  weren't  all  ours,  though.  You  know  there 
were  Mr.  Lester's  letters,  too.  I  don't  know  how  many  there 
weren't  of  his  ;  and  Rachel  had  been  writing  besides." 

"  Rachel  is  a  great  deal  too  young  to  write  so  many  let- 
ters," said  Mrs.  Oarapbell.  ''It  is  a  very  bad  thing  for 
children ;  it  teaches  them  to  scribble.  I  wonder  Mr.  Lester 
allows  it." 

"  My  hand  is  not  spoilt,  at  any  rate,  by  the  number  of  let- 
ters I  write,"  observed  Clement.  "  I  am  sure  I  don't  get 
through  half-a-dozen  in  a  twelvemonth." 

"  And  when  you  do  write,  you  don't  waste  many  words  oi 
much  paper,"  said  Louisa. 

"  No;  why  should  1  ?     It's  an  awful  bore,  anyhow." 
"  Mr.  Lester's  hand  must  quite  ache,"  said  Louisa.     "  lie 
writes  so  small,  and  crowds  in  such  a  quantity.    I  am  sure  one 
of   the   letters    to-day  looked  quite  like  a  book." 

"  Louisa,  how  could  you  know  ?"  and  Bertha  turtied  to 
her  hurriedly ;  whilst  even  Mrs.  Campbell  gave  a  glance  of 
surprise. 

But  Louisa  was  unabashed.  "  I  coixldn't  help  knowing," 
she  said;  "  Anne  came  with  us  down  the  lane,  when  we  were 
running  after  you.  Aunt  Bertha,  and  she  let  them  fall;  and 
Fanny  and  I  helped  to  pick  them  up." 


CLEVE    HALL.  253 

''  I  think  it  was  seeing  Goff  comine:  round  the  comer  sud- 
denly, that  frightened  her,"  said  Fanny.  "  She  can't  bear 
him/' 

"  He  was  very  civil,  though,"  observed  Louisa.  ''  He 
made  us  such  a  funny  bow,  and  asked  if  he  should  carry  the 
letters  for  us,  because  he  was  going  into  Eucombe,  and  he 
thought  we  wanted  to  go  to  the  shore." 

"And  Anne  was  very  glad  he  should,"  continued  Fanny; 
''because  she  had  so  much  to  do,  and  it  saved  her  the  walk." 

"  But  it  wasn't  quite  right,  Aunt  Bertha,  was  it  ?"  inquired 
Louisa.  "  When  she  was  told  to  go,  she  ought  to  have  gone. 
I  said  so.  and  I  made  her  quite  angry." 

"  And  we  said  that  we  would  ask  you  to  let  us  go  through 
the  village,  and  put  the  letters  in  the  post,"  continued  Fanny, 
perceiving  by  the  change  in  her  aunt's  countenance,  that  some 
one  had  done  wrong. 

"  It  was  very  wrong.  Anne  ought  to  have  known  better," 
began  Bertha;  when  Mrs.  Campbell  interrupted  her  in  a  fret- 
ful tone : 

"  What  is  it  all  about  ?  I  don't  understand.  What  did 
you  do  about  the  letters,  my  dears  ?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  Grandmamma." 

"  Then,  Bertha,  why  do  you  find  fault  with  them  ?  You 
are  always  hard  upon  them.  You  ought  to  inquire  before  you 
blame." 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  I  did  blame  them,"  replied  Bertha. 
"  Louisa,  did  Goff  take  the  letters  ?"  She  spoke  rather  anx- 
iously. 

"  I  think  he  did,  Aunt  Bertha,  but  I  am  not  sure.  Fanny 
and  I  ran  on  before  it  was  settled." 

''  No  great  harm  if  he  did,  that  I  car  see,"  observed  Cle- 
ment, moodily :  "  Goff 's  not  likely  to  lose  the  letters." 

"  x\nd  I  shouldn't  think  he  could  read  them,"  said  Fanny. 
''  Such  a  rough,  odd  man  heis." 

"  For  that  matter,  Fanny,"  answered  Clement,  "  he  can 
read  as  well  as  you  or  I.  He  told  me  all  about  the  loss  of  that 
ship,  off  the  Irish  coast,  word  for  word,  nearly  as  it  was  in  the 
newspaper.     He  had  read  it  all." 

"  That  was  in  to-da^^'s  paper,"  said  Louisa  :  "  Aiint  Ber- 
tha read  it  to  us.     How  did  he  hear  about  it  before  ?" 

A  curious  look  of  confused  discomfiture  crossed  Clement's 
face  ;  he  answered  abruptly  :  "  I  didn't  say  that  he  had  read 
it  before  to-day." 


254  CLEVE   HALL. 

]}i'rtlia  appoared  to  bo  cngajjcd  in  puttiii2;  away  the  .siiL!;rii, 
and  hudvini^  up  tlio  tea-caddy  ;  but  slie  lieard  all  that  passed. 

"  You  have  seen  CIufF  to-day,  then,  Clement  ?"  Her  sharp 
inquiriui^  looked  abashed  whilst  it  made  hiin  ansjry. 

"Yes;  I  have  seen  him."  And  he  played  with  liis  tea- 
spoon, whilst  his  features  assumed  an  air  of  impenetrable  de- 
termination, which  IJertha  had  no  difficulty  in  interpreting. 

"  I'ou  saw  him  this  evening,  I  suppose  'i" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  I  imagine  that  was  the  reason  you  were  at  home  so 
late." 

Whatever  might  have  been  Bertha's  object  in  lier  ques- 
tions, it  was  manifestly  unwise  to  put  them  before  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell and  the  children.  Clement's  countenance  became  only 
the  more  dark,  whilst  Mrs.  Campbell,  as  usual,  taking  her 
grandson's  part,  and  forgetting  that  she  had  been  kept  wait- 
ing, insisted  that  it  was  folly  to  tease  him  about  where  he 
had  been,  when  he  came  in  in  time ;  and  breaking  in  upon  the 
subject,  told  Fanny  to  ring  the  bell  and  have  the  tea-things 
taken  away. 

JJertha  went  out  of  the  room,  and  Clement  took  a  bpok, 
and  sat  by  the  fire ;  but  his  reading  was  merely  a  pretence. 
He  was  in  reality  thinking  of  the  difficulty  into  which  he  had 
been  brought,  and  wondering  how  much  of  his  proceedings  h(S 
should  be  obliged  to  tell.  Not  more  than  he  could  avoid,  that 
was  undoubtedly  his  conclusion,  in  spite  of  lionald's  warning. 
Something  he  supposed  he  must  say,  but  he  would  be  guided 
by  circumstances  j  a  most  convenient  salve  to  the  conscience, 
when  there  is  not  sufficient  moral  strength  in  the  charac- 
ter to  act  upon  principle.  What  he  really  intended  to  do 
might  have  been  clear  to  him  by  the  manner  in  which  he 
reverted,  in  his  own  mind,  to  the  folly  of  having  mentioned 
Goff. 

"  Louisa,  where  is  your  aunt  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Campbell, 
as  Bertha  failed  to  return  at  the  usual  reading  time. 

"I  don't  know,  Grandmamma;  I  will  go  and  see." 

Louisa  left  the  room,  not  so  much  from  obedience  as  to 
satisfy  her  curiosity.  She  came  back  almost  immediately. 
"Betsy  says.  Grandmamma,  that  Aunt  Bertha  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  cloth  cloak,  and  she  thinks  she  has  gone  up  to  the 
llectory." 

"  Very  sti'ange  !"  was  Mrs.  Campbell's  observation.  "  1 
suppose,  then,  there  M'ill  be  no  reading  to-night !" 


CLEVE    HALL.  255 

"  I  will  read,  Gra  ad  mamma,"  said  Clement.  He  was  too 
uncomfortable  to  do  aujthiag  else ;  and  even  when  he  began 
to  read,  betrayed  the  wandering  of  his  mind  by  the  mistakes 
which  he  made. 

Mrs.  Campbell  was  accustomed  to  Bertha's  independent 
modes  of  action,  and  was  not  likely  to  disturb  herself  as  to  her 
absence,  so  long,  at  least,  as  she  was  amused ;  and  Clement's 
voice,  after  a  short  time,  lulled  her  into  her  usual  quiet  even- 
ing doze ;  and  then  Louisa  and  Fanny  went  to  bed,  and  Cle- 
ment urejjared  some  lessons  for  Mr.  Lester. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

rpHlll  evening  at  the  Rectory  had  been  more  pleasant  than 
_|_  at  the  Lodge.  The  hour  for  tea  was  earlier,  at  least 
nominally,  though  Mr.  Lester's  engagenaents  did  not  always 
admit  of  his  being  punctual.  This  evening  he  happened  to 
be  very  fairly  at  leisure,  and  had  given  Rachel  more  of  his 
time  than  he  was  often  able  to  do.  They  were  very  precious 
hours  for  Rachel,  which  were  thus  snatched  from  other  duties. 
They  tended  more  to  enlarge  and  form  her  mind  than  any 
which  were  devoted  to  regular  study.  Mr.  Lester's  character 
was  peculiarly  simple,  notwithstanding  the  depth  of  his  intel- 
lect. He  never  dogmatized,  or  patronized,  even  when  talking 
to  a  child.  There  was  no  effort  to  obtain  influence  or  produce 
an  effect,  and  so  conversation,  with  him,  even  when  touching 
upon  the  most  abstruse  subjects,  flowed  easily,  because  no  one 
could  feel  shy,  or  be  afraid  of  betraying  ignorance,  before  ojie 
who  never  seemed  to  lose  the  consciousness  that  he  himself 
was  but  a  learner. 

It  was  this  characteristic  which  had  so  tended  to  devclopfe 
Rachel's  intellect.  It  had  been  nurtured  in  a  genial  atmo- 
?pliere,  free  from  the  blight  of  coldness,  or  the  stunting 
influence  of  condescension,  or  the  weakness  caused  by  the  cul- 
tivation of  any  faculty  merely  for  the  purpose  of  display.  She 
was  not  quick  in  acquiring  mere  knowledge,  and  had  therefore 
never  been  considered  clever;  and  this,  perhaps,  was  rather 
an  advantage,  since  it  served  to  make  her  like  her  father, 
simple-minded  and  free  from  self-cousciousncss.     But  she  had 


256  CLEVE    HALL. 

frrcat  powers  of  comprehension,  and  could  grasp  a  vast  idea 
almost  as  it  seemed  by  intuition,  even  when  she  was  unable  tu 
follow  out  the  detailed  evidence  by  which  it  was  supported. 
If  3Ir.  Lester's  mind  had  been  controversial,  this  alone  would 
not  have  satisfied  him  j  if  he  had  found  pleasure  in  reasoning 
for  the  sake  of  controversy,  or  delighted  in  argument  from  the 
love  of  victory,  he  would  have  required  a  companion  who 
could  at  times  throw  down  the  gauntlet  against  him,  and  give 
interest  to  his  researches  by  opposition.  ]3ut  truth  alone  was 
his  object;  and  if  all  the  world  could  see  and  recognise  truth, 
he  was  only  so  much  the  better  pleased.  And  it  was  very 
pleasaut  to  find  a  willing  listener  always  ready  at  his  fireside, 
and  to  listen  to  llachel's  remai'ks,  and  set  her  diiEculties  at 
rest.  Intelligent  ignorance  is  most  valuable  when  we  are  en- 
deavoring to  reason  correctly.  It  makes  us  view  our  theories 
from  many  different  points ;  and  those,  peculiarly,  which  our 
own  preconceived  ideas  would  have  been  likely  to  hide  from 
us;  and  JMr.  Lester  often  learnt  more  from  Rachel's  humble 
question.  How  can  that  be,  Papa  ?  than  he  would  have  done 
from  hours  of  study. 

The  danger  was  lest  this  kind  of  abstract  speculation  should 
be  too  absorbing  for  both.  With  a  less  amount  of  conscien- 
tiousness, it  might  have  rendered  them  unreal.  But  JMk 
Lester's  own  training  had  taught  him,  as  a  moral  caution,  the 
lesson  which  is  sometimes  learnt  to  our  cost,  in  another  sense, 
by  the  bitter  experience  of  life.  "  Save  me  from  my  friends, 
I  can  save  myself  from  my  enemies,"  would  have  been  trans- 
lated by  him,  though  only  in  a  secondary  sense,  ''  Save  mc 
from  my  virtues,  I  can  stive  myself  from  my  vices."  His 
warnings  to  Rachel  were  but  the  expression  of  those  which  he 
gave  to  himself;  and  fearful  of  the  enticing  nature  of  such 
intercourse,  he  continually  checked  and  limited  it,  never 
allowing  it  to  interfere  with  the  slightest  practical  duty,  even 
when  a  plausible  reason  for  the  indulgence  could  be  brought 
forward,  and  always,  if  possible,  deducing  even  from  the  mo  4 
abstruse  theories  some  definite  conclusion  which  might  operate 
upon  the  daily  course  of  life. 

A  conversation  of  this  kind  had  been  carried  on  by  the 
flickering,  cheerful  firelight;  Mr.  Lester  leaning  forward  with 
his  arm  round  Rachel's  neck,  and  Rachel  on  her  low  stool, 
resting  her  head  against  his  knees.  He  had  been  explaining 
to  her  the  kind  of  argument  used  in  Bishop  Butler's  Analogy, 
— tiying  to  make  her  comprehend  the  true  strength  and  good- 


CLEVE    HALL.  257 

ness  whicli  are  to  be  found  in  being  contented  with  the  faitli 
of  probability,  rather  than  the  certainty  of  demonstration  ;  or 
rather  not  so  much  endeavoring  to  malvC  her  understand,  as 
pouring  forth  his  own  ideas, — showing  her  how  the  argument 
had  worked  upon  his  own  mind.  And  liachel  was  drinking 
in  his  words,  finding  in  them,  not  indeed  an  answer  to  the 
difiiculties  which  her  working,  thoughtful  mind,  often  sug- 
gested ;  but  that  calm,  trusting,  enduring  principle,  based 
upon  the  consciousness  of  our  own  infinite  ignorance  and  God's 
Almighty  Wisdom,  which,  if  we  think  at  all,  can  alone  support 
us  through  the  mysterious  scenes  of  this  mortal  existence. 

It  was  not  quite  agreeable  to  be  recalled  from  these  favorite 
subjects,  and  the  enjoyment  of  the  hour  so  rarely  free  from 
interruption,  yet  Mr.  Lester  did  not  even  look  annoyed  when 
Bertha's  knock  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  llachel  only  said, 
"  It  is  over  now,  Papa,  thank  you  so  very  much,"  and  kissed 
him,  and  moved  away  before  the  door  opened,  that  IMiss 
Campbell — for  she  guessed  it  could  be  no  oue  else — might  not 
think  she  had  disturbed  them. 

Bertha  entered  the  room  slowly,  and,  after  saying  that  she 
was  afraid  she  had  interrupted  them,  sat  down  by  the  fire, 
llachel  begged  her  to  take  oft"  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  but  she 
declined,  still  in  the  same  unmoved  voice  which  gave  no 
indication  as  to  why  she  had  come,  or  how  long  she  intended 
to  stay.  Mr.  Lester  was  used  to  her,  however,  and  went  at 
once  to  the  point.  "  Do  you  wish  to  see  me  for  anything 
particular?" 

"  Thank  you,  I  should  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  you,  alone." 

"  Then,  llachel,  run  and  sec  if  the  fire  is  burning  in  my 
study;  perhaps  we  had  better  go  in  there." 

"  I  won't  keep  you  long,"  said  Bertha. 

"  The  study  is  the  best  place  for  business,  whether  it  be 
long  or  short,"  said  Mr.  Lester;  and  to  the  study  they  went. 

Rachel  asked  for  the  lamp,  and  began  her  evening  work 
for  the  jioor ;  her  thoughts  occupied  with  all  her  father  had  been 
Eaying,  whilst  her  fingers  moved  nimbly. 

"  Clement  has  been  with  Goff  again  to-night,"  began  Bertha 
at  once.  She  was  abrupt  upon  principle,  when  business  was 
concerned,  from  an  idea  that  abruptness  was  a  species  of 
honesty. 

"lias  h(!  ?  when,  and  how  long?"  Mr.  Lester  always 
treated  her  in  her  own  way,  and  never  ofiered  consolaticm  or 


258  CLEVE    HALL. 

pynipathy  till  everything  relating  to  tlic  matter  before  tlicu 
had  been  said. 

"  My  mother  sent  him  to  the  Hall  on  a  message.  I  did 
not  think  it  desirable,  but  she  was  determined.  Clement  met 
OoflF  coming  home,  and  stayed  with  him  nearly  three  quarters 
of  an  hour  beyond  his  time.  At  least — no — I  can't  be  sure 
that  he  stayed  with  him  all  the  time,  but  he  was  certainly 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  behind  time." 

''  And  what  excuse  does  he  make  for  himself?" 

"  None ;  I  did  not  give  him  the  opportunity.  Another 
thing  I  wanted  to  say.  Your  servant  took  the  letters  to  the 
post  to-day,  and  met  Goff,  and  allowed  him  to  carry  them  fur 
her.     I  don't  think  that  is  safe." 

Mr.  Lester's  countenance  changed.  "  Took  them,  do  you 
say  ?     Did  she  let  him  have  them?" 

"  Yes,  so  the  children  told  me." 

Mr.  Lester  rang  the  bell.  It  was  answered  b}'  the  delin- 
quent Anne. 

Bertha  turned  round  upon  her  sharply;  but  Mr.  Lester 
spoke  very  gently,  much  more  gently  than  when  he  was 
addressing  Bertha :  "  Anne,  you  took  the  letters  to  the  post 
to-day  ?" 

""Yes,  Sir." 

"Did  you  put  them  in  yourself?" 

A  blush,  and  a  hesitation.  "  I  gave  them,  Sir,  that  is,  I 
took  care  that  they  should  be  put  in." 

"  That  is  not  the  point.     Did  you  put  them  in  yourself?" 

"No,   Sir;    but "  Anne  looked  round    for    help,  but 

there  was  none  to  be  obtained  from  Bertha. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  there  is  no  good  in  excuses.  Who 
did  put  them  in  ?" 

Anne's  voice  trembled,  and  her  tears  began  to  flow,  as  if 
sentence  against  her  had  been  already  passed.  "  I  met  Goff, 
Sir,  and  he  was  very  civil;  and  I  was  so  busy;  and  I  didn't 
know  you  would  mind." 

"  And  you  gave  them  to  him  ?    Did  you  ever  do  so  before  ?" 

"  Yes,  Sir;  I  think  so." 

"  Recollect, t«y'ou  must  be  quite  sure.  You  have  given  them 
to  him  before?" 

"  I  can't  tell,  I  don't  remember.  Please,  Sir,  don't  send 
me  away,  I  will  never  do  so  again." 

"  Foolish  girl !  You  will  be  certain  of  being  sent  away  if 
Vou  deceive  me.     Let  me  know  at  once  how  long  you  hava 


CLEVE    HALL.  259 

been  ill  the  lialjit  cf  allowing  tliis  man  to  take  the  letters  ioi 
you." 

Mr.  Lester  doubtless  intended  to  be  gentle  still,  but  his 
uneasiness  and  anxiety  gave  a  sternness  to  his  voice,  and  an 
impatience  to  his  manner,  which  efiectually  frightened  pour 
Anne,  and  without  any  further  attempt  at  excuse  she  poured 
forth  a  confession  which,  though  comparatively  slight  in  its 
evil  as  regarded  herself,  was  the  cause  of  the  most  painful 
misgivings  as  to  the  affairs  in  which  Mi-.  Lester  was  interested. 

It  seemed  that  Goff  had  for  a  long  period  been  endeavoring 
to  make  friends  with  Anne,  always  putting  himself  in  her 
way,  talking  to  her,  and  from  her  obtaining  a  good  deal  of 
information  as  to  the  proceedings  at  the  Parsonage  and  the 
Lodge.  Anne  had  given  her  information  in  the  simplicity  of 
her  heart,  not  in  the  least  intending  to  do  harm,  not  knowing 
that  what  she  was  saying  could  be  of  the  slightest  conse(|uence, 
but  only  at  first  yielding  to  the  love  of  gossip,  and  perhaps  a 
little  intimidated  by  the  questions  of  her  interrogator,  which 
were  generally  put  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  her  little  choice 
as  to  her  answers.  By  degrees,  however,  he  had  drawn  her 
into  a  confidence  which  she  herself  saw  to  be  wrong  and  dan- 
gerous, but  it  was  then  out  of  her  power,  or  at  least  so  she 
thought  it,  to  recede.  Whenever  she  went  out,  Goff  met  her, 
persecuting  her  with  questions,  and  threatening  her  niyste- 
ri(3usly  if  she  refused  to  answer  them.  However  she  might 
try  to  avoid  him  he  was  sure  to  cross  her  path ;  most  especially 
he  put  himself  in  her  way,  as  had  happened  on  the  present 
occasion,  when  she  was  intrusted  with  the  letters  for  the  post, 
sometimes  making  her  show  him  the  directions,  and  more  than 
once  inducing  her  to  give  them  up  to  him.  Anne's  excuse 
was  that  she  could  see  no  harm;  it  did  not  seem  to  her  that  it 
signified  much  whether  one  person  or  another  took  them;  and 
it  saved  her  a  walk  which  she  was  very  glad  of,  as  she  had  so 
much  to  do.  Yet  she  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  she 
never  came  back  without  a  fear  of  being  scolded,  if  she  was 
fiiuud  out,  and  for  that  reason  had  carefully  avoided  letting  her 
fellow-servant  know  what  she  had  done. 

It  was  one  of  those  many  instances  in  wliich  a  fault  has 
been  committed  much  greater  than  has  been  intended  or 
understood,  but  for  which  there  is  little  excuse,  since  the 
warning  of  conscience  ought  to  have  been  a  sufficient  safe- 
guard. Aime  was  dismissed  with  a  severe  reprimand,  and 
3ried  bitterly  wlien  she  was  told  that  her  master  liad  lost  his 


2(50  CLEVE    HALL. 

coiifkloiiee  in  her;  but  3Ir.  Lester's  tliou,Q;lits  wjre  at  tlie  mo- 
iiRMit  too  painfully  occupied  to  permit  hiui  to  dwell  lonir  upon 
her  share  of  the  ofTeuce;  and  as  the  door  closed  behind  her, 
he  sat  down,  and  forgetting;  Bertha's  presence,  gave  way  to  a 
train  of  perplexing  considerations. 

Bertha  remained  by  him  unmoved.  She  would  have  waited 
for  an  hour  without  interrupting  him,  but  her  patience  was  not 
<|uite  so  sorely  tried.  Mr.  Lester  looked  up  at  length,  and 
8aid,  "  Wo  have  been  utterly  outwitted  by  him." 

"  T  hope  not,"  was  Bertha's  quiet  answer. 

'MVhat  hrope  do  you  see?"  inquired  JMr.  Lester,  quickly. 

"  If  he  had  discovered  anytliing,  we  should  have  known  it 
before  this.     At  the  utmost,  he  can  but  suspect." 

"  I  would  not  trust.  He  might  know  everything,  and  still 
keep  qi;iet  till  the  last  moment.  This  aifair  of  the  letters, 
you  see,  has  been  going  on  for  some  time." 

"Yes."  Bertha  looked  more  anxiously  grave.  "I  will 
take  them  myself  for  the  future." 

"  Or  I  will ;  we  can  trust  no  one  but  ourselves.  But  I 
think  less  of  that."  He  paused;  then  added,  suddenly, 
"  What  do  you  say  to  the  time  being  arrived  for  the  decisive 
step  ?" 

The  color  rushed  to  Bertha's  cheek  in  a  quick  glow,  and 
folded  away  as  suddenly.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Lester,  do  you  at  last 
say  that  ?" 

"  I  see  no  other  alternative.  The  moment  the  fact  of 
Vivian's  being  in  England  is  absolutely  known,  or  even  very 
probably  suspected,  we  are  exposed  to  schemes  against  which 
it  is  impossible  for  us  to  be  on  our  guard.  Goff  may  have 
opened  oiir  letters,  or  he  may  not;  at  any  rate,  it  is  clear  ho 
has  found  out  that  Mr.  Bruce  is  not  Mr.  Bruce,  or  he  would 
have  had  no  curiosity  in  the  matter." 

"And  you  would  have  Edward  go  openly  to  his  father?" 
inquired  I3ertha. 

"  I  see  nothing  else  that  is  to  be  done." 

"  But,  dear  Mr.  Lester,  you  speak  so  despondingly." 

He  hesitated  for  an  instant;  then  he  said,  "I  have  seen 
General  Vivian  to-day." 

"  And  you  have  sounded  him  ?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
before  ?" 

"  I  sounded  him  as  much  as  I  da  rod,  with  regard  to  Cle- 
ment ;  but  he  has  intrenched  himself  within  a  wall  of  false 
principles,  and  there  is  no  reaching  him." 


CLEVE    HALL.  201 

''  Aud  jovi  don't  think  tliat  Edward's  appearance  in  person 
will  have  any  eiFect?     A  father  !  it  must  soften  him." 

"  Aud  it  may  harden  him;  he  may,  I  think  he  will,  call  it 
a  frosh  act  of  disobedience." 

Bertha  looked  discourap:ed.  "  There  is  no  time  to  work 
upon  him,"  she  said,  "  asv^e  had  hoped,  throuo-h  the  children." 

"No;  and  if  there  were,  I  am  afraid  I  should  not  be  very 
sanguine  as  to  the  result." 

"■  General  Vivian  is  too  keen-sighted  not  to  see  Ella's  faults, 
even  if  they  were  less  hidden  than  they  are,"  replied  Bertha. 

"Yes;  and  there  is  the  old  prejudice." 

"She  is  a  Campbell,"  said  Bertha,  bitterly.  "Little 
enough  the  Campbells  would  have  to  do  with  the  Vivians  if 
they  could  help  it." 

Mr.  Lester  laid  his  hand  kindly  upon  hers ;  yet  there  was 
reproof  in  his  tone,  as  he  said,  "  I  hoped  that  old  feeling  had 
been  buried." 

Bertha  colored.  "General  Vivian  takes  pains  to  revive 
it,"  she  said. 

"  It  must  be  buried,  if  there  is  to  be  any  hope  of  success 
with  us.  We  must  trust  almost  everything  to  you  and  Mil- 
dred, and  you  must  therefore  be  friends." 

Bertha  was  silent. 

"You  will  find  her  anxious  to  prove  herself  a  friend,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Lester,  gravely. 

"  She  has  made  no  advances,"  was  the  reply. 

"Is  that  quite  a  fair  judgment?"  replied  Mr.  Lester, 
"considering  how  little  she  is  her  own  mistress.  And  surely 
she  has  sent  you  kind  messages." 

Bertha's  habitual  candor  conquered  her  momentary  pique. 
"  I  dare  say  Miss  Vivian  has  done  all  that  I  ought  to  expect," 
she  said  ;  "  but  it  is  very  difficult  to  forget  that  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  old  family  feud,  poor  Flora  must  have  been  re- 
ceived by  them,  and  all  that  happened  afterwards  would  have 
been  spared.      There  was  no  fault  in  her." 

"Miss  Vivian  feels  this  as  much  as  you  do,"  replied  jMr. 
Lester;  "and  you,  on  your  part,  must  consider  that,  but  for 
what,  no  doubt,  there  was  cause  to  consider  an  unfortunate 
attachment  to  jour  sister,  her  only  brother  might  never  have 
bi'cn  an  exile  from  his  home.  I  don't  say  this  to  pain  you," 
lie  continued,  observing  Bertha's  fiice  of  distress;  "I  only 
wish  to  make  you  view  the  question  from  bolh  sides.  It  may 
he  most  essential  that  there  should  b(,'  ud  misunderstanding 


2G2  CLEVE   HALL. 

between  yoii  and  Mildred.     You  have  both  something  to  for- 
get and  to  forgive,  as  regards  your  family  histories." 

"I  will  try  not  to  be  prejudiced/'  said  Bertha;  but  tlie 
tone  implied  a  mental  reservation. 

"  And  you  will  succeed,"  replied  Mr.  Lester,  ''  if  you  don't 
attempt  too  much.  These  vague  feelings  of  family  dislike  are 
scarcely  to  be  combated  like  actual  faults.  We  can  only  accept 
thorn,  and  deal  with  them  as  we  do  with  individual  character- 
istics,— negatively,  that  is,  rather  than  positively." 

'*  I  don't  quite  understand,"  replied  Bertha. 

"  What  I  mean  to  say  is,  that  we  can't  actually  make  our- 
selves, all  at  once,  forget  them,  or  feel  as  if  they  did  not  exist, 
any  more  than  we  can  suddenly  become  insensible  to  certain 
peculiarities  of  manner  or  expression  which  may  offend  txs  ; 
but  we  can  prevent  ourselves  from  allowing  them  to  weigh 
with  us  unduly ;  and  it  is  always  in  our  power  to  put  them 
aside  in  action." 

"  I  have  never  seen  Miss  Vivian  yet,"  replied  Bertha;  "so 
there  have  been  few  opportunities  for  action." 

"  She  would  like  to  see  you  as  soon  as  you  can  make  it 
convenient  to  go  to  her ;  the  sooner  now,  I  think,  the  better. 
She  is  one  with  us,  and  has,  I  think,  quite  forgiven  the  con- 
cealment of  Mr.  Bruce's  identity." 

^  Bertha  seemed  undetermined ;  and  said  she  could  not  per- 
ceive what  good  was  likely  to  accrue  from  the  meeting. 

"  Essential  good,  if  our  hopes  should  fail,"  replied  Mr.  Les- 
ter. "  In  that  case  you  will  be  the  only  person  to  keep  up  any 
satisfactory  communication  between  Mildred  and  the  children. 
Poor  Vivian  will  be  more  cut  off  than  ever." 

*^  I  am  so  unfortunate  and  awkward,"  said  Bertha.  "  I  feel 
that  I  mar  everything  I  come  in  contact  with.  I  don't  mean 
it,  I  am  sure,"  she  added,  as  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

Mr.  Lester  answered  eagerly  :  "  No,  I  am  sure  you  don't. 
Perhaps, — don't  think  I  am  taking  a  liberty  in  saying  so, — 
perhaps  contact  with  another  mind  may  throw  more  light  upon 
your  own.  Only,  I  will  just  remind  you, — you  mustn't  think 
it  necessary  to  fall  in  love  with  Mildred." 

Bertha  smiled  in  spite  of  herself.  "  Not  much  fear  of  that," 
.»he  said. 

''I  am  not  so  sure.  I  really  believe  that  conscientious 
people  have  great  difficulty  in  accepting  antipathies,  and  so 
they  make  violent  efforts  to  overcome  them,  wliich  have  jusl 
the  contrary  effect  from  that  desired.' 


CLEVE    UALL.  263 

"  The  antipatliies  are  wrong,  of  course,"  replied  Bertlia. 

"  Their  indulgence  is  wrong,  but  the  feeling  may  be  the 
result  of  circumstances  beyond  our  own  control,  and  we  are 
much  more  likely  to  be  just  to  persons  when  we  acknowledge 
to  ourselves  we  have  a  prejudice  against  them,  than  when  we 
try  to  conceal  the  fact  and  persuade  ourselves  that  we  are  fond 
of  them.  But  we  must  leave  all  that  now.  I  am  sure  you 
will  try  to  understand  Miss  Vivian,  and  I  hope  when  I  come 
back  from  London  I  shall  hear  that  you  have  met." 

"  Are  you  going  to  London  ?"  inquired  Bertha  quickly. 

'^  I  think  I  must  see  Vivian;  but  I  shall  only  be  absent 
two  or  three  days." 

''  And  he  will  come  down  at  once  then  ?' 

"He  will  wish  to  do  so,  I  suspect;  any  risk  will  seem 
better  than  the  monotonous  life  he  has  been  leading.  But 
even  without  this  fresh  call,  I  think  I  must  have  gone  to  talk 
to  him  about  what  is  to  be  done  with  Clement.  The  General 
offers  to  assist  in  placing  him  with  a  private  tutor." 

Bertha's  countenance  brightened.  "  Oh  !  then,  he  does 
acknowledge  a  duty." 

"  Partly ;  I  don't  mean  to  be  perverse,  but  I  honestly 
would  rather  he  did  not.  Persons  are  so  difficult  to  deal  with 
who  go  half  way  with  a  duty,  and  then  say  good-b'ye  to  it. 
He  promised, — let  me  see — 1  made  a  memorandum  as  to  the 
conversation  when  I  came  away." 

iMr.  Lester  felt  for  his  pocket-book,  and  in  doing  so  took 
out  his  handkerchief,  and  with  it  the  paper  which  he  had, 
without  knowing  it,  brought  away  from  the  Hall.  It  fell  upon 
the  table,  and  Bertha  took  it  up.     "Is  this  it?"  she  said. 

"  Thank  you,  no :  I  wrote  it  on  a  blank  leaf."  Without 
fooking  at  the  paper,  and  suppo.sing  it  to  be  a  bill,  Mr.  Lester 
placed  it  in  the  pocket  of  his  li',tle  book,  and  then  proceeded 
to  read  to  Bertha  the  heads  of  his  morning  conversation. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  when  he  had  ended,  "  there  is  little 
if  any  hope  :  the  feeling  is  as  strong — stronger  perhaps  than 
ever;  and  each  day  that  goes  by  strengthens  it,  by  enlisting 
pride  in  support  of  what  seems  justice.  No,  we  have  now 
only  one  altei'native,  to  make  a  last  appeal  to  the  General's 
feelings,  and  possibly  in  doing  that  we  may  find  the  clue  to 
John  Vivian's  rascality,  and  so  at  least  place  Vivian's  conduct 
in  its  true  light,  even  if  we  can  do  nothing  else." 

"  And  if  all  should  fail,  Edward  must  return  to  Jamaica," 
8aid  Bertha. 


'JG4  CLEVE   IIAT.L. 

"  I  trust  not  that ;  lie  -n'ould  never  staiul  it :  we  must  make 
a  home  for  him  somewhere  ;  and  with  ^you  and  j\lihh-od  to  fcH'I 
witli  him  we  may  hope  that  it  may  be  'fairly  happy.  ]Jut  that 
is  ruuninc^  on  very  far  ahead,  and  we  must  not  forget  Goft"  and 
the  present  moment." 

"  I  don't  see  what  is  to  be  done  ab<iut  him,"  said  Bertha. 

"Nothin.2:,  just  now,  but  to  watch.  Oh!  Clement,  Cle- 
ment !  the  despair  it  is  not  to  be  able  to  trust  him." 

"  And  he  piques  himself  so  upon  beinc;  honorable,  and 
havinp:  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman,"  said  Bertha. 

"  Yes,  not  at  all  perceiving  that  the  very  essence  of  honor 
is  never  to  abuse  confidence." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  might  be  as  well  to  sec  him,  and  in- 
quire what  he  has  been  doing  with  himself  this  evening!!'" 
asked  Bertha. 

Mr.  Lester  considered  a  little.  "  I  hate  being  suspicions, 
and  the  very  fact  of  inquiring  so  minutely  very  often  suggests 
deceit.  Yet  perhaps  it  may  be  as  well :  I  will  walk  with  you 
across  the  garden,  and  then  I  will  bring  him  back." 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  that,"  answered  Bertha,  in  reply. 
"  The  moon  is  just  up,  and  it  is  quite  light.  Besides,  I  must 
stop  for  one  moment  at  Duff's  cottage,  to  ask  for  his  child.  I 
will  send  Clement  to  you;  that  will  be  the  best  way." 

Mr.  Lester  demurred,  but  Bertha  was  positive,  and  just  in 
that  way  which  made  him  feel  that  he  should  annoy  her  if  he 
insisted  upon  carrying  his  point.  So  they  said  good-b'ye ;  and 
]3ertha  walked  across  the  little  garden,  and  Mr.  Lester  re- 
turned to  his  study  to  wait  for  Clement. 

One  thing  could  not  but  strike  him,  as  he  recurred  to  what 
had  passed  :  the  very  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  all  had  been 
said  and  arranged,  not  in  the  least  as  if  great  interests  were 
at  stake,  or  there  were  grounds  for  unusual  uneasiness. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  the  conversation.  Bertha's  rather 
monotonous  voice  had  scarcely  been  raised  above  its  usual 
low  pitch ;  she  had  seldom  laid  any  peculiar  emphasis  on  her 
words,  or,  in  fact,  in  any  way  betrayed  that  the  topics  discussed 
were  of  importance  to  her. 

Accustomed  though  he  was  to  her,  Mr.  Lester  marvelled. 
Perhaps  in  his  heart  he  felt  pained.  It  was  very  difficult  to 
work  with  such  a  person,  to  give  or  receive  the  sympathy  ne- 
cessary for  support  in  doubt  and  difficulty.  And  then  with 
]Mr.  Vivian  and  the  children  1  What  was  to  be  the  end  ?  Could 
they  possibly  live  together  ?    Would  Bertha  ever  really  obtain 


CLEYE    HALL.  2G5 

a  right  iafluence  in  her  owa  family  ? — Yet  the  uncomfortable 
misgiving  partially  vanished  when  he  remembered  how  she 
had  given  him  her  hand  at  parting,  and  said  very  timidly : 
'•I  don't  know  how  to  say  thank  you,  as  I  ought."  There 
Tras  something  so  humble,  simple,  child-like,  and  true  in  her; 
such  a  consciousness  of  her  own  deficiencies! 

That  unfortunate  early  education, — nipping,  blighting,  as 
it  had  been ;  what  a  noble  nature  it  had  marred  I 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


'^IITR.  LESTER  wants  to  see  you,  Clement."     The  words 
jjA.  broke  most  uncomfortably  upon  Clement's  slumber,  as, 
having  finished  his  writing,  he  established  himself  in  an  arm- 
chair, opposite  to  his  grandmother. 

"  Wants  to  see  lie,  does  he  ?"  and  he  rubbed  his  eyes. 
"It's  awfully  late  and  cold." 

"  It  won't  take  you  two  minutes  to  run  across  the  garden, 
and  you  must  not  keep  him." 

Clement  delayed,  and  Bertha  was  obliged  to  repeat  the 
message. 

*'  Mr.  Lester  will  be  very  much  annoyed,  Clement,  if  you 
don't  make  haste'." 

"■  Going,  Aunt  Bertha,  going."  He  went>  out  into  the 
passage,  but  came  back  again.  "  Where  on  earth  can  that 
girl  have  put  my  great  coat  ?" 

"  Your  great  coat,  Clement  ?  nonsense.  It  is  not  a  hun- 
dred yards  to  the  Rectory." 

"  Enough  to  feel  the  cold,  Aunt  Bertha ;  I  must  have  my 
coat."  He  rang  the  bell ;  Bertha  left  the  room,  called  out  to 
the  servant  not  to  answer  the  bell,  and  went  herself  to  the 
closet  where  she  knew  that  the  missing  coat  was  to  be  found. 

Clement  looked  ashamed.  With  all  his  faults,  he  had  the 
feeling  of  a  gentleman.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Aunt  Bertha ; 
I  really  didn't  mean  to  give  you  the  trouble,  but  that  girl  is 
so  intolerably  careless." 

"  And  a  boy  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  be  dependent  upon 
her.  She  has  enough  to  do  without  waiting  upon  you,  Cle- 
ment." 

12 


206  CLEVE    HALL. 

"Then  T  wish  she  woiihln't  mctldlc  with  1113'  things  at  all," 
muttered  Clement,  tlctermlucd  to  have  the  last  word.  IIo 
drew  on  his  coat  very  slowly.  Bertha  looked  at  him  with  that 
evident  sclt-control  whieh  shows  that  impatience  is  on  the 
point  of  bursting  forth.  Clement,  however,  did  not  see  this. 
lie  buttoned  his  coat  up  to  the  chin,  preparing,  as  it  might 
have  seemed,  for  a  walk  of  ten  miles ;  and  set  forth  as  leisurely 
as  if  he  had  felt  quite  at  his  ease. 

He  was  shown  at  first  into  the  room  where  Rachel  was  sit- 
ting at  work.  A  poor  man  had  just  come  up  from  the  village, 
having  business  with  Mr.  Lester;  and  a  message  was  there- 
fore sent,  begging  him  to  wait. 

Clement's  heart  sank.  "  What  are  you  doing  there,  Ra- 
chel ?"  he  said,  drawing  near  to  Rachel's  chair,  and  watching 
her  busy  fingers,  lie  said  it  merely  to  distract  his  thoughts. 
Anything  was  better  than  that  wretched  standing  by  the  fire, 
waiting  for  the  door  to  open  again. 

"  Making  a  warm  coat  for  Barney  "Wood,"  replied  Rachel. 
"  Won't  it  be  comfortable  ?"  and  she  held  it  up  for  him  to  see. 

Clement  looked  at  it  carelessly,  and  Rachel,  a  little  disap- 
pointed at  receiving  no  admiration  of  her  performance,  re- 
turned to  her  work  in  silence. 

Clement,  still  finding  his  own  meditations  uncomfortable, 
spoke  again  : — "  I  thought  Barney  Wood  was  worse." 

"  Yes,  so  he  is,  a  great  deal ;  that  is  the  reason  he  wants 
something  specially  to  keep  him  warm.  Who  do  you  think  is 
going  to  give  the  coat  ?"  she  added,  her  face  brightening  with 
pleasure. 

"  You  are,  I  suppose,"  he  replied. 

"  Oh,  no;  I  haven't  half  money  enough  I  am  making  it 
fur  Ronald  to  give.     It  was  so  kind  of  him  to  think  of  it." 

"  So  odd,  you  mean,"  replied  Clement. 

"  Odd  !  why?"  She  turned  round  quickly,  and  looked  at 
him  with  wonder. 

"  It's  a  queer  thing  for  a  fellow  like  him  to  think  about  a 
child's  coat.     That's  a  woman's  business." 

"Not  to  think  about  it,  is  it?"  said  Rachel.  "It's  a 
woman's  business  to  make  it,  and  that  is  why  I  am  working 
for  him.  But  Ronald  is  odd,  I  suppose,"  she  added,  thought- 
fully. 

"  Have  you  found  that  out  for  the  first  time  to-day,  eh, 
Rachel  ?"  and  Clement  laughed  a  little  satirically. 

"I  don't  think   I  ever  shduld  find   it  out  myself,"  replied 


CLEVE   HALL.  267 

Rachel.  "  People  say  Ronald  is  odd,  aud  so  I  suppose  lie  is, 
but  he  never  seems  so  to  me." 

''  Much  experience  you  must  have  had  of  him,  little 
■vroman,"  said  Clement,  patronizingly,  as  he  patted  her  on  the 
shoulder. 

Rachel  drew  back  with  an  air  of  annoyance.  She  could 
not  endu'-e  familiarity,  and  answered,  rather  coldly,  that  she 
certainly  did  not  see  Ronald  often ;  but  when  she  did  she 
liked  him  very  much,  and  thought  him  very  good. 

Clement  laughed.  "A  doughty  champion  Ronald  will 
have,"  he  said,  ''when  it  conies  to  a  fight  fur  his  character. 
But,  Rachel,  j'ou  will  have  no  one  else  on  your  side.  I  don't 
think  Ronald's  goodness  is  what  the  world  admires  him  for." 

"  He  is  good,  though,"  said  Rachel,  resolutely. 

"  Then  he  must  make  you  his  confidante,  and  tell  j'ou  all 
his  virtues,"  said  Clement.  "  You  wouldn't  discover  them 
yourself." 

"I  think  I  should,"  said  Rachel;  "1  do  indeed,  for  he 
never  praises  himself.     That  is  one  thing  I  like  him  for." 

"  Virtue  the  first;  and  what  next?" 

"He  doesn't  think  about  himself,"  continued  Rachel;  "I 
mean  he  will  take  any  trouble  for  any  one,  and  he  is  always 
civil ;  and, — I  can't  tell  exactly  everything, — but  I  am  sure 
he  is  to  be  trust.^d." 

"  Trusted  !  yes,  I  suppose  he  wouldn't  steal." 

Rachel's  eyes  kindled.  "  I  should  think  not,  indeed,"  she 
exclaimed,  laying  down  her  work,  and  turning  to  Clement, 
with  a  flushed  cheek ;  "  but  it  wasn't  that  I  meant ;  being 
trusted  doesn't  mean  money,  but  honor.  He  wouldn't  tell  a 
story  or  deceive ;  or  pretend  anything  that  wasn't  true;  and 
he  keeps  his  word.  When  you  look  at  him  you  feel  that  he 
is  to  be  trusted." 

Clement  bit  his  lip,  and  answered  coolly: — "No  great 
praise  after  all.     Most  persons  speak  truth." 

"Yes;  but  it  is  not  speaking  truth,"  replied  Rachel,  her 
musical  voice  becoming  deeply  earnest ;  "it  is  feeling  truth. 
Clement,  don't  you  know  what  I  mean  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  do,  only  you  express  yourself  so  oddly;  you 
always  do." 

"  Do  I  ?  I  didn't  know  it;"  and  in  a  moment  she  was  the 
humble  child  receiving  a  reproof,  as  she  added,  "  I  will  try  and 
be  clear,  but  I  don't  quite  know  how." 

Perhaps  Clement  had  no  wish  for  her  definition  of  truili. 


268  CLEVE   HALL. 

for  he  gave  her  no  encouragement  to  continue.  Yet,  in  lior 
siniplioity,  llachel  did  not  perceive  this,  and  thinking  that  he 
was  waiting  for  her  to  explain  herself,  she  went  on  with  a 
blush  on  her  cheek,  and  a  little  hesitation  in  her  voice  : — "  I 
mean  that  Konald  never  seems  to  be  two  persons,  or  to  mean 
two  things.  When  he  promises  anything  he  does  it,  and  when 
he  says  he  likes  anybody,  you  always  see  that  he  really  docs. 
Sometimes  I  have  heard  him  say  he  dislikes  what  papa  thinks 
he  ought  not  to  dislike,  parts  of  books  and  such  things ;  but 
that  doesn't  prevent  his  being  true.  Papa  says" — she  con- 
tinued, and  she  glanced  at  Clement  doubtfully,  in  the  fear 
that  she  might  be  relapsing  into  odd  expressions — "  that  truth 
is  formed  of  two  halves,  fitting  into  each  other,  and  making 
one  whole.  I  am  sure  Ronald's  words  and  his  actions  always 
fit ;  and  I  dare  say  his  heart  and  his  words  fit  too,  only  I  can't 
tell  so  much  about  that,  and  it  is  so  much  more  difficult  to 
make  them  fit." 

"  You  are  desperately  given  to  metaphysics,  Rachel,"  said 
Clement. 

"  Am  I  ?  I  only  say  what  papa  says.  But,  Clement,  I  am 
sure  you  know  what  I  mean  about  Ronald." 

"  He's  a  very  good-hearted,  honest  fellow,"  replied  Cle- 
ment ;  "  but  1  can't  tell  how  you  seem  to  know  so  much  about 
him,  Rachel." 

"  He  comes  to  talk  to  papa  about  his  Latin,"  said  Rachel, 
"  and  about  Barney  Wood,  too ;  and  sometimes  we  have  met 
him  when  we  have  been  to  see  Barney.  I  don't  know  much 
about  him,  really,  though." 

''  And  so  he  means  to  pay  for  that  wonderful  coat  you  are 
making?" 

"  Yes ;  he  asked  Miss  Campbell  and  me  to  get  it ;  and  we 
went  to  Cleve,  the  other  day,  and  chose  it." 

"  Barney  Wood  is  fortunate  in  having  so  many  persons  to 
look  after  him,"  said  Clement,  carelessly. 

"  He  won't  want  care  very  long,"  replied  Rachel ;  "  so  it 
ip  right  to  make  him  as  comfortable  as  we  can  whilst  he  is 
here.  I  can't  think  how  he  comes  to  be  such  a  nice  child, 
when  he  is  Goff's  grandchild." 

"  Oh  !  you  hate  GoflF,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  do  you  ?" 
said  Clement. 

"I  don't  hate — I  don't  hate  any  one;  but  I  don't  like 
him;  and  I  know  papa  thinks  he  does  a  great  deal  of  mischief, 


CLEVE    HALL.  239 

and  I  am  sure  lie  is  afraid  that  Barney's  father  is  going  to  be 
like  him." 

"  And  Ronald,  too,  then,"  said  Clement,  "  as  they  are 
always  together." 

He  said  it  merely  to  tease  her ;  but  she  could  not  see  this, 
and  fancying  him  in  earnest,  she  threw  down  her  work,  and 
starting  up,  exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  Clement,  you  don't  know  any- 
thing about  Ronald  ;  you  are  very  unkind  to  him ;  and  I  used 
to  think  you  were  fond  of  him,"  she  added,  more  gently,  but 
still  very  reproachfully. 

"Perhaps  I  am  just  as  fond  of  him  as  you  are,  Rachel; 
only  I  see  more  of  him,  and  know  more  of  his  ways." 

"  You  don't  know  more  than  papa  does,"  continued  Rachel, 
taking  up  her  work,  and  evidently  trying  not  to  speak  as  if 
she  was  annoyed ;  "  and  he  thinks  that  if  Ronald  has  good 
persons  about  him  he  will  be  a  very  good  man." 

"  Possibly.  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  dispute  it ;  only  I 
don't  see  where  the  people  are  to  come  from  who  are  to  make 
hiui  good.     His  father  won't  do  much  in  that  way." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  scarcely  about  Captain  Vivian," 
replied  Rachel ;  "  but  I  am  afraid  of  him." 

''  He's  a  good  sort  of  fellow  enough,"  was  Clement's  off- 
hand reply;   "  only  not  very  pretty  company  for  girls." 

"Then  I  shouldn't  think  he  could  be  good  for  boys,"  ob- 
served Rachel,  with  a  quick  glance  at  Clement,  which  made 
him  a  little  angry. 

"  I  should  be  glad,  Rachel,  if  you  would  decide  for  your- 
self, not  for  me,"  he  said.     "  You  can't  possibly  be  a  judge." 

Rachel  looked  distressed.  "  Did  I  vex  you,  Clement  ?  I 
didn't  mean  to  do  it.  I  only  thought  that  papa  is  so  sorry 
when  you  have  been  with  Captain  Vivian." 

"  I  can't  help  being  with  hiiu  sometimes." 

"  Can't  you  really?  Then  I  suppose  it  won't  do  you  any 
harm." 

The  remark  was  made  with  such  apparent  childish  simpli- 
city, that  Clement  began  to  laugh. 

"Was  it  anything  very  odd  that  I  said?"  continued 
Rachel.  "  I  thought  nothing  could  do  us  harm  which  we 
couldn't  help." 

"  What  an  absurd  child  you  are !"  exclaimed  Clement. 
"  You  take  up  one's  words  as  if  you  were  weighing  them. 
Can't  help,  doesn't  really  mean,  can't  help." 

"  Papa  won't  let  me  say  I  can't  help  a  tiling,"    replied 


270  CLEVE    ITALL. 

Raeliel,  "unless  I  really  can't.  lie  says  that  people  teach 
themselves  self-deceit  by  their  words.  And  you  know,  Cle- 
ment, nothing  can  be  wrong  which  we  really  can't  help." 

"  Then  I  am  quite  sure  I  am  the  most  virtuous  being  in 
existence,"  exclaimed  Clement;  "  for  I  can't  help  half — no, 
not  three  quarters — of  the  wrong  things  I  do." 

"  But  if  we  ought  to  say,  I  don't  try  to  help  it,"  persisted 
Rachel,  "  that  would  be  a  great  mistake." 

"  I  don't  read  learned  books,  and  study  metaphysics,  as  you 
do,  Rachel,"  said  Clement,  sarcastically.  "  And,  happily  for 
me  !  My  head  would  get  addled  in  a  month.  You  aic  enoagh 
to  perplex  a  saint  with  yoixr  quibbles." 

"It  is  no  quibble;  and  I  don't  learn  it  from  books,  nor 
from  anything,"  exclaimed  Rachel,  her  naturally  quick  temper 
being  roused  by  the  taunt;  "I  learn  it  from  my  own  heart. 
When  I  say  I  can't  help  a  thing,  and  I  really  can  help  it,  it  is 

something  inside  that  tells  me  it  is  untrue.     But "  she 

paused,  her  tone  changed,  and  she  added  humbly,  "  I  ought  not 
to  speak  out  so,  Clement;  please,  forgive  me." 

Clement  murmured  something  in  reply,  which  was  scarcely 
audible.  He  glanced  at  the  door,  feeling,  he  did  not  know 
why,  that  the  interview  with  Mr.  Lester  would  have  been 
more  endurable  than  this  conversation  with  the  open-hearted, 
true-minded  child,  whose  every  word  was  a  reproach  to  him. 

Rachel  fancied  she  had  deeply  offended  him,  and  again 
begged  for  forgiveness.  She  knew,  she  said,  that  it  was  her 
way  to  speak  out,  and  she  did  try  to  keep  her  temper  under; 
only  not  so  much  as  she  ought.  *'  You  will  forgive  me,  won't 
you,  Clement?"  she  added,  in  her  most  pleading  voice. 

It  must  have  been  a  very  hard  heart  that  could  refuse ; 
and  Clement  was  naturally  good-tempered,  and  really  liked 
Rachel,  only  he  took  pleasure  in  shocking  what  he  called  her 
matter-of-factness.  He  pretended  to  hold  out  a  little,  for  the 
purpose  of  hearing  her  again  beg  for  pardon  in  that  very 
sweet,  humble  tone ;  and  then  suddenly  changing  and  start- 
ling her  by  a  laugh,  he  exclaimed — "  Why,  Rachel,  you 
are  more  silly  than  I  took  you  to  be !  I  never  said  I  was 
angry,  did  I  ?" 

"  I  didn't  know.  I  very  often  do  speak  out  when  I  ought 
not,"  was  the  answer;  and  there  was  rather  an  awkward 
silence,  which  perhaps  neither  of  them  was  sorry  to  have 
broken  by  the  entrance  of  the  servant,  who  suumioued  Cle- 
ment to  Mr.  Lester's  study. 


CLEVE   HALL.  271 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

IT  is  a  marvellous  and  fearful  subject,  tliat  of  unconscious 
influence.  It  miglit  almost  paralyze  us  with  its  enormous 
responsibility,  if  it  were  not  for  the  fact,  which  becomes  obvious 
to  any  person  who  studies  the  formation  of  character,  that  the 
weight  of  indirect  good  always  in  the  end  preponderates  over 
indirect  evil.  We  advise,  and  warn,  and  reprove,  and — either 
from  some  defect  of  manner,  some  deflcient  mode  of  expres- 
sion, or  perhaps  some  latent  vanity  or  temper — we  neutralize 
our  own  words ;  and  the  person  whom  we  are  ^.ttempting  to 
lead  in  the  right  way,  leaves  us  to  follow  the  wrong ;  but,  if 
we  are  not  called  upon  to  give  counsel,  and  yet  are  in  a  posi- 
tion to  act,  each  deed  of  self-denial,  self-control,  thoughtful 
kindness, — each  word  or  tone  which  may  tend  to  reveal  our 
secret  motives,  comes  unmarred  fi'om  Him  who  has  enabled  us 
to  serve  Him,  and  brings  with  it  a  power  which  is,  in  its  very 
nature,  necessarily  victorious  over  evil.  A  child  brought  up 
by  two  persons — neither  attempting  to  direct  in  words,  but  the 
one  practically  earnest  and  good,  and  the  other  practically 
careless  and  indifferent,  will  cling  to  the  former,  and  reject  the 
latter.  But  a  child  receiving  excellent  advice  from  one  per- 
son, and  very  bad  advice  from  another,  will,  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten,  listen  to  the  bad,  and  reject  the  good.  Who  h-ds 
not  felt  the  indirect  influence  of  a  child's  goodness  ?  Who 
would  not  have  felt,  as  Clement  did  when  he  left  Rachel 
Lester,  that  those  few  unconscious  warnings,  the  result  of  her 
own  honest,  simple,  high-minded  spirit  of  truth  and  obedience, 
had  a  power  which  even  impressive  eloquence  might  have  failed 
to  exercise?  Clement  was  in  a  diff"erent  frame  of  mind,  when 
he  appeared  before  Mr.  Lester,  from  that  in  which  he  had  left 
the  Lodge  :  then  he  had  quietly  made  up  his  mind  to  say 
nothing;  now,  on  the  contrary,  he  was  inclined  towards  candor 
and  sincerity;  and  when  Mr.  Lester  addressed  him  with  his 
usual  kindness,  and  told  him  he  was  sorry  to  have  kept  him 
waiting,  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  at  once  have  acknowledged 
his  offence,  and  made  reparation  by  promises  for  the  future. 
But  he  was  still  trusting  to  himself,  unaware  of  the  weakness 
of  his  own  resolution. 

Mr.  Lester  began  the  conversation  cautiously.     "  You  wciit 
to  the  Hall  this  evening,  Clement  i"' 


272  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  Yes,  Sir." 

"  And  you  rcturucd  late,  and  met  Guff?" 

"  Yer,  Sir." 

IMr.  Lester  paused,  hoping  for  somctliing  besides  the  mono 
pvllable ;  but  Clement's  courage  was  not  equal  to  the  confession, 
without  help. 

"  Were  you  with  him  long?" 

"  I  don't  know  the  exact  time,  Sir." 

"  ])id  he  force  himself  upon  you  '(" 

"  lie  came  and  walked  by  my  side,  Sir."  A  keen  pang  of 
conscience,  and  a  recollection  of  llachcl,  and  Clement  added : — 
"  He  said  he  was  going  my  way,  and  so  we  went  together." 

Mr.  Lester's  countenance  brightened.  There  was  a  tone 
of  candor  in  this,  which  was  cheering.  He  thought  that 
Clement  had  told  all.  "  I  suppose  you  came  straight  homci'" 
he  said. 

"No,  sir;  we  went  round  by — the  fields."  Another  pang 
of  conscience,  worse  than  the  first.  He  had  almast  corrected 
himself  as  before,  and  added, — by  the  Grange.  But  he  waited 
for  another  question. 

"  Oh,  by  the  fields.  I  suppose,  then,  that  was  what  made 
you  so  late  ?" 

Alas  for  Clement  !  the  almost  right  was  changed,  as  so 
often  happens,  into  quite  wrong;  and,  seizing  on  the  suggested 
excuse,  he  replied, — "  It  was  a  good  way  round — farther  than 
I  thought." 

Something  in  his  countenance  and  tone  struck  Mr.  Lester 
painfully.  "Clement,"  he  said,  "you  are  above  suspicion, — 
I  cannot  possibly  doubt  your  word ;  but  if  there  is  anything 
in  this  which  I  ought  to  know  beyond  the  fact  of  your  having 
been  with  Gofi",  I  trust  to  your  honor  to  tell  me." 

A  minute  before  Clement  would  have  responded  to  the 
appeal,  by  at  once  acknowledging  his  visit;  but  the  first  equi- 
vocation, contrary  to  the  voice  of  conscience,  had  done  its 
work.  He  had  not  spoken  out  at  first, — he  was  ashamed  to 
confess  his  evasion, — and  so  he  covered  it  by  another,  still 
intending  to  say  the  whole  presently. 

"  I  don't  think  anything  Golf  said  could  have  done  me  much 
harm,  Sir.  He  talked  about  the  loss  of  the  steamer  oif  the 
Irish  coast,  most  of  the  time." 

"  What  he  talked  about,  Clement,  is  not  the  question.  If 
he  had  been  giving  you  the  most  excellent  advice  all  the  time, 
I  should  still  have  objected  to  your  being  with  him." 


CLEVE    UALL.  273 

That  was  an  unfortunate  speech  for 'Clement's  courage.  If 
Mr.  Lester  so  strongly  objected  even  to  a  walk  and  an  innocent 
conversation,  what  would  he  say  to  the  visit  to  the  Grange ! 
The  old  excuses  suggested  themselves  again,  but  the  pang  of 
conscience  was  intensely  keen.  Rachel's  voice  and  words  were 
ringing  in  his  ears.     To  resist  now  would  be  a  more  wilful  sin. 

Mr.  Lester  seemed  considering  deeply.  Clement  stood 
before  him  in  an  agony  of  weak  intention.  He  delayed ; — and 
there  are  cases — many  and  most  common — in  which  delay  is 
all  that  the  Tempter  requires  for  his  victory. 

Presently  Mr.  Lester  said,  with  a  slight  nervousness  of 
manner, — "  You  must  know,  Clement,  some  of  the  reasons 
which  make  us  all  so  anxious  to  prevent  your  having  any  inter- 
course with  that  man  Goff.^' 

"  I  know  people  say  he  is  a  smuggler,"  replied  Clement. 

Another  pause.  Mr.  Lester's  tone  was  still  more  uneasy, 
as  he  replied  : — "  There  may  be  deeper  reasons  than  that, — 
family  reasons ;  you  have  heard  of  them." 

"  Family  affairs  are  a  mystery  to  me,"  said  Clement,  shortly. 

''That  is  not  the  exact  truth,  Clement.  You^o  know 
something." 

"  I  know  that  my  fi\ther  has  been  very  ill  used,"  replied 
Clement;  "and  that  we  ought  all  to  be  much  better  off  than 
we  are." 

"  Possibly,"  answered  Mr.  Lester,  dryly.  "  But,  Clement" — 
las  voice  became  deeply  earnest  and  serious — "  your  father  has 
been  suffering  for  years  from  the  consequences  of  that  same 
spirit  of  wilful  independence  which  will  infallibly  be  your  ruin, 
if  you  yield  to  it.  He  was  warned  against  companionship — 
against  Captain  Vivian's  companionship;  he  saw  no  necessity 
for  the  warning,  and  he  would  not  take  it.  The  result  was  the 
loss  of  home,  friends,  and  fortune — exile  for  himself,  poverty 
for  his  children." 

"  My  grandfather  was  unjust,"  exclaimed  Clement,  indig- 
nantly. 

"  Let  it  be  so.  Your  father  erred,  and  has  grievously 
repented  his  error." 

"  If  he  was  disinherited  unjustly,  I  don't  see  what  there 
was  to  repent  of,"  replied  Clement. 

"  What  we  suffer,  Clement,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
extent  of  our  offence.  And  there  is  one  truth  which  I  would 
most  earnestly  strive  to  impress  upon  you.  It  seems  to  be  one 
of  the  marked  rules  of  God's  Providential  government,  that 


274  CLEVE    HALL. 

sooniiiiiily  trifliiiij;  ofTenccs  should,  if  coiiiiiiitted  wilfully,  aiul 
against  waniiiiir,  briny;  upon  us  irreniediablc  puiii.sluiicnt.  Quo 
tlion^ht  of  evil  admitted  into  our  hearts,  by  our  own  choice, 
will  do  us  more  harm  than  all  we  are  taught  by  experience, 
without  our  choice,  as  we  pass  through  life.  The  word  or 
sujr.iz;estion  of  sin  which  Goff  or  Captain  Vivian  may  bring 
before  you,  when  you  are  Avilfully  seeking  their  society,  or, 
what  is  the  same  tiling,  wilfully  refusing  to  avoid  it,  will  haunt 
you  to  your  dying  day;  and  one  weak  yielding  to  a  slight 
temptation  to  disobedience  may  be,  with  you,  as  it  was  with 
your  father,  ruin  fur  life.  It  is  tie  first  time  I  have  spoken  in 
this  way,"  continued  Mr.  Lester.  "  It  is  intensely  painful  to 
me  to  bring  up  the  remembrance  of  faults  which  have  been 
expiated,  as  far  as  sorrow  and  amendment  can  expiate  any 
guilt ;  but  your  father  would  be  the  first  to  bid  me  warn  you 
by  his  example  and  his  sufferings.  In  his  name,  Clement,  I 
bid  you  remember  that  it  is  not  the  amount  of  our  offence, 
but  the  wilfulness  with  which  it  is  committed,  which  is  our 
sin  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  which  brings  upon  us  His  just 
vengeance." 

Clement's  heart  beat  very  fast ;  the  words,  "  I  have  done 
very  wrong.  Sir,"  escaped  him.  He  might  have  added  more, 
but  IMr.  Lester,  seizing  upon  the  acknowledgment, — almost 
the  first  which  he  had  made  without  any  attempt  at  excuse, — 
interrupted  him  by  saying  in  a  lighter  tone : — "  It  is  all  I 
wish,  Clement,  that  you  should  see  that  these  little  disobedi- 
ences are  very  wrong.  I  dare  say  you  have  excuses  for  them. 
I  dare  say  Goff"  thrusts  himself  upon  you.  Veiy  often  you 
may  have  a  difficulty  in  ridding  yourself  of  him.  But  that 
ought  only  to  give  you  the  more  spirit  in  resisting.  Where 
would  be — I  will  not  say  the  merit — one  ought  not  perhaps  to 
use  the  word — but  the  satisfaction,  of  victory,  if  there  were  no 
struggle  ?" 

The  expression  was  leather  an  unfortunate  one,  for  Clement's 
vanity  was  picjued.  He  answered  hastily, — "  There  is  not 
much  struggle.  Sir,  I  am  sure,  in  getting  rid  of  a  fellow  like 
that ;  I  am  not  so  desperately  fond  of  his  company,  after  all ; 
only  he  thrusts  himself  upon  me,  and  I  can't  shake  him  off"." 

"  Not  can't,  Clement;  you  can  if  you  will." 

"  He  wouldn't  go  to-night.  Sir;  I  tried  several  times  to 
take  short  cuts." 

Quite  true  this  was,  as  before,  in  the  letter;  but  the  excuse 
had  led  Clement  a  long  way  from  the  spirit  of  truth.     If  h« 


CLEVE    HALL.  275 

were  to  say  now  that  he  had  gone  into  the  Grange,  it  would 
Beem  as  if  he  had  spoken  an  untruth,  or  at  least  something 
approaching  to  it.  Mr.  Lester  looked  at  his  watch,  being 
anxious  to  close  the  conversation.  "  Well,  Clement,  I  can 
only  say,  what  I  have  often  said  before,  that  I  trust  to  your 
honor.  I  cannot  possibly  tell  how  much  or  how  little  you  put 
yourself  in  the  way  of  these  men,  or  whether  they  only  pursue 
you  for  their  own  bad  purposes.  They  have  some,  you  may 
be  sure ;  and  if  they  could  lead  you  into  serious  mischief,  their 
end  would  be  gained ;  but  in  this,  as  in  everything  else,  your 
only  real  safety  is  openness.  If  you  have  been  betrayed  into 
disobedience,  say  it.  Don't  wait  till  you  have  been  tempted 
to  great  sins,  but  acknowledge  the  small  ones.  Of  course  I 
believe  to-night  that  Golf  thrust  himself  upon  you ;  that  you 
only  walked  with  him  through  the  fields ;  and  that  he  said 
nothing  which  I  should  object  to  your  hearing.  I  very  much 
disapprove  of  anything  of  the  kind ;  and  most  unquestionably 
you  were  wrong  in  not  taking  the  shortest  path.  If  the  thing 
should  happen  again,  some  stricter  precautions  must  be  taken, 
as  it  would  be  evident  that  you  are  not  fit  to  be  trusted." 

Clement's  heart  was  very  full.  He  was  upon  the  point — 
all  but  upon  the  point  of  being  candid;  but  he  hesitated  still; 
a  knock  at  the  door  was  heard — and  he  was  silent. 

So  it  is :  we  will  not  take  the  right  step  at  the  right 
moment;  when  we  wish  to  take  it  the  opportunity  is  past. 
Surely  not  in  vain  is  it  written,  **  To  everything  there  is  a 
season,  and  a  time  to  every  purpose  under  the  heavens." 

Clement  went  home  weak  and  miserable. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


"  TTERE  is  a  note  from  Grandmamma,  Aunt  Mildred,"  said 
_LJ_  Ella,  entering  IMiss  Vivian's  morning-room  with  a 
couiitonaiice  expressive  of  anything  but  satisfaction. 

"  No  bad  news  in  it,  I  hope ;"  and  then  Mildred,  catching 
the  meaning  of  Ella's  face,  added,  "  She  does  not  want  you 
back  again  ?" 

"She  says  Aunt  Bertha  is  coming  to  talk  to  you  about  it 
to-day." 


270  CLEVE   HALL. 

It  was  iNIildrcd's  turn  to  look  a  little  uncomfortable  then. 
This  vi.sit  of  Bertha's  had  been  hanfjinp;  over  her  like  a  night- 
mare ever  since  Ella  had  been  with  her.  Yet  she  answered 
cheerfully,  "  We  must  make  the  room  look  pretty  and  com- 
fortable if  Aunt  Bertha  is  coming.  I  should  like  her  to  have 
a  pleasant  impression  of  the  Hall." 

"  I  am  sure  she  will  have  one  if  she  is  like  me,"  said  Ella, 
draAving  her  chair  nearer  to  her  aunt's  sofa.  "  But  then  she 
is  not  at  all  like  me,  that  is  the  misfortune;"  and  she  sighed. 

''  Or  you  arc  not  like  her,  Ella,  and  that  is  the  misfortune;" 
and  Mildred  looked  at  Ella,  and  laughed. 

"Now  you  wouldn't  wish  me  to  be?  Aunt  Mildred,  you 
must  say  it;  you  wouldn't  be  pleased  if  I  were  like  Aunt 
Bertha.'"' 

Mildred  considered.  "1  should  be  pleased,  Ella,  I  am 
sure,  if  you  were  like  her  in  some  things." 

"  Some,  yes;  of  course  she  is  not  a  monster,  she  has  some 
good  points." 

*'  A  very  great  many,  if  report  says  truth." 

"  Report  and  Mr.  Lester,"  replied  Ella.  "  lie  lauds  her 
to  the  skies." 

"  Then  she  must  deserve  to  be  lauded.  I  don't  know  any 
one  more  unprejudiced  than  Mr.  Lester." 

"  But  what  is  being  unprejudiced,  Aunt  Mildred  ?  It  is 
one  of  the  words  I  hear  so  often,  and  I  never  can  in  the  least 
tell  what  it  means." 

"  Derivations  help  one  very  much  in  the  meaning  of  words," 
replied  Mildred.  *'  Prejudice  is  prejudgment,  judging  before- 
hand ;  unprejudiced  persons,  therefore,  don't  form  their  judg^ 
ment  before  they  are  acquainted  with  facts." 

"  That  scarcely  applies  to  Mr.  Lester  and  Aunt  Bertha," 
observed  Ella.  "  Of  course  ]Mr.  Lester  judges  according  to 
what  he  sees;  and  so  would  every  one." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Ella.  One  of  the  rarest  qualities  to 
be  met  with  in  this  trying  world  is  that  of  judging  according 
to  what  a  person  sees." 

"  Is  it?"  and  Ella  looked  extremely  surprised. 

"  1  will  tell  you  how  people  generally  form  their  judgments," 
continued  Mildred.  "They  have  their  own  preconceived  no- 
tions of  right  and  wrong,  possibly  correct,  possibly  incorrect ; 
bvit,  either  way,  these  notions  are  their  standard  to  which  they 
think  all  ought  to  submit.  When  they  become  acquainted 
with  any  individual,  they  try  him  by  them.     If  they  are  re- 


CLEVE    HALL.  2ti 

ligious,  they  find  out  whether  he  holds  certain  doctrines;  if 
they  are  politicians,  they  test  him  by  his  opinions  upon  some 
of  the  questions  of  the  day.  They  don't  look  upon  his  whole 
character,  but  without  having  had  time  to  become  acquainted 
with  him  thoroughly,  they  form  their  judgment  and  like  or 
dislike  him." 

"  I  am  sure  that  is  natural  enough,"  said  p]lla.  "  I  can 
always  tell  after  I  have  seen  persons  twice  whether  I  like 
them." 

"  No  doubt  you  can :  but  the  mischief  i&  that  prejudiced 
persons  allow  their  private  feelings  to  blind  them  to  facts.  I 
will  give  you  an  instance  of  what  I  mean.  Suppose  you  were 
reading  a  book  written  by  a  person  you  dis.  iked ;  if  you  were 
prejudiced  you  would  begin  with  a  conviction  that  the  writer 
held  certain  opinions,  and  instead  of  taking  his  words  in  their 
natural  meaning  you  would  twist  them  to  suit  your  own  pre- 
conceived ideas  of  what  he  thought.  So  again,  if  it  were  a 
book  whicb  you  could  not  help  admiring  because  it  showed 
great  talent,  you  would  leave  the  beauty  and  dwell  upon  some 
small  defects.  This  is  especially  common  in  the  case  of  ser- 
mons. If  a  clergyman  does  not  hold  precisely  the  opinions 
approved  by  those  who  hear  him,  they  will  put  aside  all  that 
is  really  true  and  right  in  what  he  says  and  harp  upon  what 
may  be  defective,  till  at  last  one  is  apt  to  forget  that  he  really 
has  told  one  anything  from  which  one  might  profit.  Now  all 
this  kind  of  narrow-mindedness  Mr.  Lester  is  totally  free  from. 
He  would  give  a  candid  and  impartial  judgment  of  his  great- 
est enemy." 

"Does  that  mean  Aunt  Bertha?"  asked  Ella,  miscbiev- 
ously. 

Mildred  laughed.  "  Not  qiiite  He  admires  Aunt  Bertha 
extremely." 

''  He  hasn't  to  live  with  her  every  day,"  said  Ella. 

"  That  does  make  a  difference,  certainly.  He  sees  enough 
of  her  though  to  know  what  she  is  really  like ;  and  he  is  quite 
iware  of  her  defect  of  manner ;  but  it  would  never  make  him 
form  a  ftdse  judgment  of  her." 

"  Then  you  think  I  am  prejvidiced,  Aunt  Mildred  V 

"  Yes,  very." 

*'  Thank  you  fjr  being  honest,"  and  Ella  blushed,  and  tried 
to  smile,  but  almost  cried. 

"  Prejudice  is  a  most  common  fault  with  young  people," 
continued  Mildred ;  "  one  may  almost  say  it  is  natural  to  them. 


278  CLEVE    HALL. 

]}ut,  tlioro  is  hope  fur  you,  Ella,  for  that  very  reason.  The 
pn-jniliccJ  persons  Avhoni  one  really  grieves  over  are  the  well- 
incanini;-  people  who  shut  thenisehcs  up  in  their  own  fancies, 
and  mix  only  with  those  who  agree  with  them,  and  so  never 
give  themselves  the  opportunity  of  being  cured." 

"Oh!  Aunt  Mildred  an  advocate  for  dissipation!"  ex- 
claimed Ella. 

'<  I  hope  not.  Worldly  people  are  just  as  likely  to  be  pre- 
judiced in  their  way  as  religious  persons  are  in  theirs.  But 
certainly  it  does  vex  one  heartily  to  see  the  mischief  that  is 
done  in  these  days  by  the  prejudices  of  really  kind-hearted 
people,  who  yet  can  see  nothing  good  beyond  their  own  narrow 
circle.  The  moment  an  unhappy  individual  differs  from  them 
on  certain  points,  he  may  be  as  earnest,  and  honest,  and  self- 
denying  as  a  saint,  but  his  words  and  actions  are  distorted 
until  one  begins  to  think  that  truth  has  left  the  earth.  There, 
Ella,"  and  Mildred  laughed,  "  I  have  delivered  my  testimony, 
as  Mause  in  Old  Mortality  would  say.  You  didn't  think  I 
could  get  so  excited,  but  if  there  is  one  thing  in  the  world  I 
dread  more  than  another,  it  is  prejudice.  Perhaps,"  and  her 
manner  became  graver,  "it  is  because  I  know  that  I  have  a 
tendency  to  it." 

"  If  I  am  prejudiced,  I  don't  know  how  to  find  it  out," 
said  Ella. 

"  One  can  easily  test  oneself,"  replied  Mildred.  "  You  are 
fond  of  me,  you  ai"e  not  fond  of  Aunt  Bertha.  Suppose  each 
of  us  had  done  something  very  noble,  or  written  something 
very  clever,  which  should  you  admire  the  most  ?" 

The  reply  was  a  heaity  kiss. 

"  Thank  you  for  the  kiss,  dear  child,  but  not  thank  you  for 
the  prejudice." 

"  Seeing  a  fault  is  not  curing  it  though,"  said  Ella. 

"  It  is  the  first  step  towards  it.  I  found  out  my  own  pre- 
judice before  Mr.  Lester  came,  when  we  had  a  clergyman 
whose  manner  I  disliked  extremely,  but  who  really  was  a  very 
good  man,  and  preached  excellent  sermons.  In  those  days  I 
was  not  quite  such  a  cripple  as  I  am  now ;  at  least,  I  was  able 
to  go  to  church  oftener.  I  discovered  that,  instead  of  think- 
ing of  what  the  clergyman  was  saying  in  church,  I  was  always 
criticising  his  unpleasant  manner,  or  some  particular  expres- 
sion which  I  disliked.  One  day  he  preached  a  sermon  which 
my  father  admired  very  much,  and  as  usual  I  cried  it  down. 
and  seized  upon  certain  sentences  which  I  disliked.     The  next 


CLEVE   HALL.  279 

week  I  was  reading  a  new  volume  of  sermons  by  a  person 
whom  I  especially  reverenced,  and  I  actually  found  this  very 
same  sermon  amongst  them.  I  really  was  shocked  at  myself, 
and  from  that  day  I  set  to  work  to  cure  myself  of  prejudice." 

"  I  dare  say  you  did  it  at  once,"  observed  Ella  •  "  you  could 
never  have  had  any  difficulty  in  conquering  your  faults,  Aunt 
Mildred." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Ella;  it  has  been  the  work  of  years. 
You  know  I  scarcely  see  any  persons  except  the  few  living 
near  Cleve  and  Encombe ;  and  that  kind  of  life  ceitainly  tends 
to  encourage  prejudice.  However,  I  do  try  to  guard  a!j;ainst 
it." 

''But  how?"  inquired  Ella. 

"  When  I  am  going  to  meet  a  person  whom  I  think  I  shall 
dislike,  I  try  to  give  up  any  preconceived  idea  I  may  have 
formed  of  his  character,  and  to  jvidge  him  only  by  what 
actually  comes  before  me." 

"  That  is  so  difficult,"  said  Ella. 

"  Yes,  and  for  that  very  reason  a  rule  I  have  made  for  my- 
self is  never,  if  I  can  avoid  it,  to  express  an  unfavorable  opinion 
of  anything  said  or  done  by  a  person  whom  I  don't  like  until 
I  have  thought  the  question  over  twice.  If  it  is  impossible  to 
praise,  I  try  to  be  silent." 

"  But,  Aunt  IMildred,  I  do  dearly  love  hearty  likes  and  dis- 
likes.    That  constant  caution  is  so  tame." 

"  I  go  with  you  entirely,  Ella.  Like  or  dislike  actions  oi 
principles  as  much  as  you  choose,  and  I  will  join  with  you  to 
your  heart's  content.  But  there  is  no  real,  honest  approval  or 
disapproval  in  prejudice.  It  is  a  mere  petty,  narrow-minded, 
uuchai'itable  giving  way  to  personal  feeling,  the  only  thing 
about  it  which  is  not  exclusive  being  that  it  is  common  to  all 
sides  and  all  parties." 

"Good  people  as  well  as  bad;  then  one  need  not  be  so 
ashamed  of  it,"  said  Ella. 

"  Prejudice  again,  Ella.  A  fault  is  a  fault  whoever  is 
guilty  of  it.  I  can't  help  thinking  myself,  indeed,  that  it  is  all 
the  worse  when  it  is  found  amongst  the  good,  and  I  am  sure  it 
does  more  mischief.  Truth  requires  no  support  from  prejudice, 
it  needs  only  the  faith  of  those  who  profess  to  fight  tor  it." 

"  Dear  Aunt  Mildred,  you  are  so  tired,"  said  Ella;  and  she 
looked  at  her  aunt  anxiously. 

31iMrcd  smiled.  "  That  is  because  I  have  been  talking  so 
niuch,  Ella;  but  you  don't  knoAV  what  a  rare  thing  it  is  foi' 


280  CLEVE    HALL. 

nic  to  find  any  one  to  whom  I  can  speak  out  freely,  excejjfc 
jK'i-haps,  !Mr.  Ijoster,  and  I  see  him  so  seldom.  I  lie  on  ni\ 
sofa  and  read  in  the  newspapers  what  is  i^oing  on  in  the  world  ; 
all  the  prejudice,  and  bitterness,  and  party-feeling;  till  at 
last  I  become  so  interested  and  excited  that  I  feel  as  if  I 
really  could  bear  my  solitude  no  longer;  and  sometimes  I  write 
it  all  out,  and  soTuetimes  I  talk  it  out,  and  that  is  what  I  have 
done  to-day.     But  it  is  not  wise." 

"  When  I  am  gone  from  you,  you  will  be  in  solitude  again," 
observed  Ella. 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  come  and  see  me  often ;  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  learnt  to  know  you  now." 

"  To  know  how  bad  I  am,"  replied  Ella. 

"  To  know  how  good  you  may  be,  rather.  Ella,  dear,  you 
have  done  wonders  lately." 

"  Because  I  have  had  you  to  help  me  and  keep  me  up.  I 
have  had  sympathy :  Aunt  Mildred,  that  is  what  I  require." 

"  What  you  would  like,  you  mean,"  replied  Mildred.  "  Wo 
require  only  what  we  have." 

"  It  does  not  seem  so  at  home,"  said  Ella,  sorrowfully. 

"Is  any  one  of  your  duties  too  much  for  you?"  inquired 
Mildred. 

"  Not  any  one  exactly,  but  all  together  are." 

"  That  can  scarcely  be.  Duties  are  not  like  soldiers.  AYe 
don't  confront  them  in  masses,  but  singly.  When  two  come 
together,  one  is  forced  to  yield." 

"  But  it  is  possible  to  be  wearied  with  fighting  singly,"  said 
Ella. 

"  Ah  !  there  I  grant  you  is  the  diflBculty,  especially  with 
persons  who  are  a  little  inclined  to  be  lazy;"  and  Mildred 
looked  at  Ella  and  smiled.  '*  But  Ella,  there  is  a  remedy  for 
that  too.  To  use  another  simile,  indolent  people,  who  have  not 
strength  to  swallow  their  disagreeable  duties  at  one  dose,  should 
learn  to  sip  them  by  degrees." 

"  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean  by  sipping,"  replied 
Ella. 

"  Each  day's  duty  is  a  drop,  and  we  are  never  required  to 
take  more  at  a  time.  However  indolent  we  may  be,  we  can 
rouse  ourselves  to  swallow  the  drop ;  and  if  we  do  this  every 
day,  we  shall  have  the  victoiy  in  the  end  quite  as  surely  as  if 
we  had  endeavored  to  take  the  whole  at  once." 

"  But  persons  never  can  take  the  whole  at  once,"  replied 
Ella.     "  They  can't  tell  what  will  be  required  of  them." 


CLEVE   HALL.  281 

"They  can  rouse  themselves  to  the  effurt  of  rcsohition," 
replied  Mildred ;  "  and  if  you  inquire,  you  will  find  that  in 
many  cases  this  is  done.  When  a  duty  is  put  before  a  very 
energetic,  persevering  person,  it  if?  generally  seized  and  deter- 
mined upon  at  once.  I  mean  in  this  way  :  take  the  case  of  a 
bad  temper.  Energy  generally  goes  with  it.  An  energetic 
person  making  a  humble  resolution  to  strive  against  ill  temper 
will  not  always  succeed;  yet  the  resolution  once  taken,  ita 
impetus  is  sufficient,  through  God's  grace,  to  carry  him  on  for 
years.  Of  course,  constant  watchfulness,  and  self-recollection, 
and,  above  all,  fervent  prayer,  are  necessary; — but  once  let  it 
be  determined  that  the  evil  shall  be  subdued,  and,  humanly 
•speaking,  it  is  subdued.  The  resolution  made  cannot  be  shaken. 
So  it  is  with  bad  habits,  evil  company ;  one  earnest  exertion 
of  the  will,  in  dependence  upon  God's  help,  and  the  victory  is 
gained  for  life.  This  I  call  being  able  to  swallow  the  duties 
of  a  life  at  once ;  and  a  great  advantage  it  is :  only,  when  we 
are  inclined  to  envy  it,  we  must  remember  that  special  dangers 
go  with  special  blessings.  There  is  a  risk  of  self-reliance  in 
this  strength  of  purpose.  It  requires  great  watchfulness  not 
to  be  led  to  rest  on  ourselves,  when  we  find  that  what  we  resolve 
to  do  we  can  do." 

"  It  must  make  it  much  more  easy  to  be  good,  though," 
said  Ella. 

"  Perhaps  so,  in  some  ways;  but  indolence  is  not  so  very 
difficult  to  cure  if  it  is  properly  dealt  with.  What  I  mean  in 
your  case  by  sipping  your  duties  was,  that  you  should  not 
try  to  make  the  strong  resolution  I  have  named  to  subdue  a 
fault  at  once.  Resolve  for  one  or  two  days,  or  for  a  week,  and 
learn  to  leave  the  rest  to  God.  Don't  ever  allow  yourself  to 
think  of  what  it  will  be  to  continue  sti'iving  for  your  whole 
life.  Our  Lord's  warning  about  earthly  anxieties  is  equally 
applicable  to  spiritual  ones,  '  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil 
thereof.'  You  must  remember  that  to  discipline  ourselves 
properly,  it  is  necessary  to  accept  our  characters  as  they  are, 
not  to  deal  with  them  as  if  they  were  what  they  are  not.  A 
very  indolent  and  changeable  person  wmnot  possibly  make  the 
Btrong  resolution  which  will  carry  him  through  life  ;  but  a  con- 
tinuous determination  will  do  the  same  work  as  a  strong  one. 
And  it  is  a  great  point,  Ella,  to  keep  ourselves  from  being  dis- 
heartened. Half  our  task  would  be  done  if  we  were  sure  of 
success." 

Tears  gathered  in  Ella's  eyes,  and  resting  her  arm  upi.n 


282  CLEVE   HALL. 

IMililrcd's  pillow,  she  said,  "  I  have  more  cause  to  be  disheart- 
ened than  any  one,  for  I  have  made  so  many  resolutions,  and 
stronjx  ones  too." 

*'  Excitable  resolutions,  you  mean,  dear  Ella,"  replied  Mil 
dred.  "There  is  a  vast  difference  between  strength  and  ex- 
citement." 

"  I  don't  feel  the  difference." 

''Strength  is  quietness,  calmness;  the  power  lo  foresee 
difficulties  without  shrinking  from  them.  It  is  the  effect  of 
reason  rather  than  of  feeling ;  and  where  it  exists,  it  is  accompa- 
nied by  a  certain  consciousness  of  power  granted  by  God, 
which  is,  in  the  warfare  of  the  soul,  what  the  courage  of  the 
soldier  is  who  has  never  been  known  to  retreat  in  battle." 

"  Oh  !  if  I  did  but  possess  it !"  exclaimed  Ella. 

"  It  is  nature,  not  grace,"  replied  Mildred ;  "  and  grace 
can  make  up  for  all  the  deficiencies  of  nature.  Only  we  must 
remember  that  grace  will  not  destroy  nature, — it  will  but  guide 
it.  Once  more,  dear  Ella,  I  would  entreat  you  to  deal  with 
yourself  wisely ;  and  whatever  resolutions  you  may  make,  let 
them  be  for  a  day,  a  week,  or  at  the  very  utmost  a  month,  and 
then  renewed.  So,  through  God's  mercy,  we  may  trust  that 
you  will  have  that  prestige  of  victory  which  carries  us  half-way 
towards  our  next  success." 

''  And  I  must  go  home  to-day,  and  begin,"  said  Ella, 
mournfully. 

"  I  hope  not.  My  father  would  like  to  keep  you  here;  and 
I  think  your  Grandmamma  will  wish  to  please  him." 

"  It  is  not  Grandmamma,  it  is  Aunt  Bertha,"  said  Ella ; 
and  then  seeing  Mildred  look  a  little  grave,  she  added,  "  Aunt 
Bertha  thinks  I  am  only  a  trouble  here ;  but  it  is  not  quite 
that,  is  it?" 

"  Not  since  you  have  taken  to  reading  out  to  Grandpapa 
at  night,  certainly,"  said  Mildred,  kindly. 

"  And  he  let  me  walk  with  him  yesterday,"  continued 
Ella;  "  and  we  got  on  beautifully  till  he  fancied,  I  am  sure, 
that  he  saw  Captain  Vivian  talking  to  Clement,  and  then  he 
turned  away,  and  scarcely  spoke  again.  I  found  afterwards 
that  it  was  not  Captain  Vivian,  but  I  didn't  venture  to  tell 
him  so ;  was  I  right  ?" 

"  Perhaps  so.  I  can  scarcely  tell.  It  depends  so  much 
Upon  the  mood  he  is  in." 

Ella  looked  thoughtful.      ''Aunt  Mildred,  there  are  somo 


CLEVE    HALL.  liSa 

questions  I  stould  like  very  mucli  to  ask  you,  only  I  am  afraid 
you  woulda't  like  them." 

"  Then  don't  ask  them,"  replied  Mildred,  a  little  quickly, 
but  checking  herself  directly,  she  added,  "  Doubtful  questions 
are  always  better  avoided,  unless  there  is  some  good  to  be  ob- 
tained by  them." 

Ella  was  evidently  rather  disappointed. 

"  You  shall  have  them  all  answered  some  day,  dear  Ella, 
but  I  doubt  if  this  is  the  time." 

"  There  would  be  no  opportunity,  if  it  was  the  time,"  said 
Ella,  as  she  went  to  the  door.  "  I  am  sure  I  heard  the  hall 
bell.     It  must  be  Aunt  Bertha." 

She  went  a  few  steps  into  the  passage  without  remarking 
how  very  pala  Mildred  looked,  or  in  the  least  guessing  her 
feelings.  For  herself  there  was  some  excitement  in  the  idea 
of  doing  the  honors  of  the  Hall,  in  spite  of  the  little  pleasure 
she  had  in  seeing  her  Aunt. 

Ella  was  right;  it  was  Bertha,  and  she  ran  up  to  her 
quickly.  Bertha's  manner  was  kind,  but  extremely  nervous  j 
and  her  first  question  was,  whether  Greneral  Vivian  was  at 
home? 

"  No ;  it  is  his  hour  for  going  into  the  park ;  he  won't  be 
in  for  another  half-hour  or  more.  How  are  they  all  at  home, 
Aunt  Bertha  ?" 

"  Pretty  well;  tolerable  Yoa  are  quite  sure  General  Vi- 
vian is  gone  outi"' 

''  Oh,  yes  ;  Grandpapa  is  in  the  park,  isn't  he,  Greaves  ?" 
and  Ella  turned  to  the  gray-headed  butlei',  who  was  the  Gene- 
ral's confidential  servant. 

"  The  General  went  out  about  ten  minutes  since,  ma'am. 
He  will  return  to  luncheon  at  one." 

"  And  you  will  stay  to  luncheon,  Aunt  Bertha?'  I  don't 
think  you  have  ever  seen  the  dining-room,  have  you  ?  It  is 
such  a  beautiful  room." 

Twenty  years  before  Bertha  had  once  been  in  that  room, 
on  the  occasion  of  a  public  meeting,  the  first  at  which  she  had 
ever  been  present.  It  was  a  dream  of  awful  grandeur  to  her, 
— one  of  the  most  impressive  of  her  youthful  recollections ; 
and  she  could  recall  the  stately  courtesy  of  the  General, — the 
polished  civility  of  his  manner,  giving  that  undofinable  im- 
pression of  dislike,  which  can  neither  be  reasoned  against  nor 
overcome;  and  Edward  Vivian, — young,  handsome,  full  of 
hope  and  energy,  distinguishing  himself  by  a  speech  of  conal 


284  CLEVE    HALL. 

dorablo  talent, — ami  Flora  listening;  with  her  head  bent  down, 
but  with  a  rapt  attention,  which  had  been  the  first  thina;  that 
awakened  in  Bertha's  mind  the  perception  of  her  attachment. 
Yes,  there  were  memorable  associations  connected  with  the 
great  dining-room  at  Clcve  Hall.  Bertha  had  no  wish  to  dis- 
turb them  by  the  sight  of  the  stern  old  man, — the  martyr  to 
his  own  principle, — sitting  alone  in  his  proud  consciousness 
of  rectitude,  amidst  the  ruins  of  happiness  which  himself  had 
caused  ;  and  she  hurried  on  with  her  eyes  dizzy,  her  memory 
full  of  shadowy  images,  and  scarcely  conscious  whether  she 
was  walking  in  dream  or  in  reality,  until  she  found  herself  at 
the  door  of  Mildred's  apartment. 

Ella  threw  it  open  eagerly.  She  was  amused  and  excited, 
and  her  e3'es  were  bright  with  animation, — a  strange  contrast 
to  the  cold  and  self-restrained,  yet  somewhat  furtive  glance 
which  Bertha  cast  around  her,  as,  for  the  first  time,  since  the 
events  which  had  shed  a  gloom  over  both  their  lives,  she  stood 
face  to  face  with  Mildred  Vivian. 

"  Ella,  dear,  draw  the  easy-chair  near  for  your  aunt.  I  am 
such  a  cripple.  Miss  Campbell,  that  it  is  difficult  to  move ;  but 
I  can  give  a  welcome,  still ;"  and  Mildred  held  out  her  hand, 
and  the  rebellious  tears  which  rose  to  dim  her  eyes  were  kept 
back  by  a  strong  eff'ort,  as  she  added,  with  a  winning  smile, 
"  I  think  I  ought  to  quarrel  with  you  for  not  having  come  to 
see  me  before." 

"I  fancied  you  seldom  received  visiters,"  was  Bertha's 
reply,  uttered  with  a  quietness  and  precision  which  even  Mil- 
dred's quick  perception  could  not  have  discovered  to  be  a 
cloak  for  painful  feelings. 

"  Not  very  often;  we  have  so  few  neighbors;  but," — Mil- 
dred was  a  little  confused  by  Bertha's  composed  gaze,  and 
rather  hesitated,  as  she  added,  "I  hoped  that  Ella's  being 
here  might  have  proved  an  inducement;  but  it  is  rather  a 
long  walk." 

"  I  am  a  very  good  walker,"  replied  Bertha,  not  accepting 
the  excuse.  "It  is  scarcely  more  than  a  mile  and  three  quar- 
ters by  the  cliff"." 

''  Oh,  you  came  that  way,  did  you  ?"  Mildred's  voice 
showed  her  relief  at  having  reached  an  easy  topic :  "  the  wind 
must  have  been  rather  high." 

"llather;  but  it  was  deliciously  fresh,  Ella,  shall  you 
mind  returning  that  way  ?" 

"  Return,  must  I  ?   Oh,  Aunt  Bertha  !" 


CLEVE   HALL.  285 

"  Grandmamma  tliiuks  you  have  had  rather  a  long  lioli- 
day,"  continued  Bertha. 

"  But  I  have  not  been  at  all  idle,  have  I,  Aunt  Mildred  ? 
especially  the  last  week.  I  have  worked  much  more  regularly 
than  at  home." 

"  If  31  rs.  Campbell  could  spare  her  a  little  longer,  I  think 
my  father  would  be  pleased,"  said  Mildred.  "  She  reads  to 
him  in  the  evening,  and  I  think  he  will  miss  her." 

Bertha's  face  lighted  up  in  an  instant :  "  Of  course,"  she 
said,  ''  if  General  Vivian  wishes  her  to  remain,  it  would  cause 
a  difference." 

"  And  she  has  been  walking  with  him,  lately,"  continued 
Mildred;  *' making  herself  much  more  useful  than  I  can.  I 
am  only  afraid,"  she  added,  with  an  air  of  interest,  "  that  her 
absence  will  throw  a  burden  upon  you  with  the  little  ones.  I 
wish  I  was  near  enough  to  help  you." 

With  any  other  person  the  wish  might  have  seemed  only 
matter  of  civility;  but  there  was  an  innate  truth  in  Mildred's 
manner  which  made  it  impossible  to  take  what  she  said  for 
mere  words.     Bertha's  "  thank  you"  was  cordial. 

"  Ella  tells  me  that  you  give  her  a  great  deal  of  assistance 
always  with  the  children,"  continued  Mildred.  "  That  must 
be  rather  troublesome,  when  Mrs.  Campbell  is  such  an  in- 
valid." 

"  Aunt  INIildred  tells  me  I  am  not  to  let  you  help  me  any 
more,"  said  Ella,  bluntly.  "  And  if  I  were  to  go  home  now, 
perhaps  I  should  be  good,  and  do  it  all  myself  quite  properly. 
I  have  made  a  number  of  resolutions." 

Bertha's  face  was  graver  than  the  speech  required,  and  Mil- 
dred, fearing  a  lecture,  said  lightly,  "  Aunt  Bertha  will  think 
with  me,  perhaps,  Ella,  that  good  deeds  are  worth  more  than 
good  resolutions ;  however,  I  give  you  credit  for  both  here." 

"  I  have  had  experience  of  Ella's  good  resolutions,"  said 
Bertha,  coldly ;  "  but  I  am  glad  she  has  improved  in  any  way." 

Nothing,  perhaps,  tests  humility  more  than  being  told  one 
is  improved.  Ella  had  not  yet  reached  the  degree  of  lowli- 
ness which  would  permit  her  to  hear  it  with  patience,  and  she 
said  angrily,  "  I  know,  Aunt  Bertha,  you  are  not  likely  to 
give  me  a  character  for  improvement." 

A  very  gentle  sigh  escaped  Mildred ;  Ella  heard  it,  and 
went  up  to  her:  ''  You  are  vexed  with  me,  Aunt  Mildred.  1 
ought  not  to  speak  out  so ;  but  Aunt  Bertha  never  gives  me 
much  credit  for. anything." 


286  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  I  dare  say  she  pvcs  you  as  mncli  as  you  deserve,  and 
perhaps  a  great  deal  more,"  said  IMildrcd,  smiling.  "But 
suppose  you  take  your  books  upstairs,  now,  if  you  really  are 
not  suing  home,  and  leave  Aunt  Bertha  and  myself  to  talk  a 
little"  together;  we  shall  find  a  good  many  things  to  say  which 
will  nut  exactly  concern  you." 

The  bright,  loving  face  was  very  inviting  for  a  kiss,  and 
Ella  gave  one,  and  said  in  a  half-whisper  that  she  did  not 
think  she  left  her  character  in  very  good  hands,  and  then  de- 
parted  ;  whilst  Bertha  sat  in  silent  astonishment  at  the  ready 
obedience  to  a  request  which,  if  she  had  made  it  herself,  wuuld 
have  been  followed  by  the  moodiness  of  hours 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


WHEN  Ella  was  gone,  Bertha's  manner  was  much  changed. 
It  was  as  though  she  felt  more  at  ease  with  herself, 
and  had  lost  the  unpleasant  consciousness  that  her  acts  were 
watched  and  commented  upon.  Mildred,  on  the  contrary,  was 
more  awkward.  It  might  have  seemed  that  she  had  topics  to 
bring  forward  which  she  was  studying  how  to  introduce.  She 
made  an  observation  upon  Ella's  unusual  height,  and  then 
paused  for  an  answer,  which  was  given  her  by  Bertha's  walk 
ing  up  to  the  sofa,  and  placing  a  note  before  her  saying,  "  Mr. 
Lester  begged  me  to  give  you  this :  he  is  gone  to  London." 

Mildred's  speaking  countenance  in  a  moment  betrayed  her 
feelings  whilst  she  read  the  note;  her  face  was  of  an  ashy 
paleness ;  when  it  was  ended,  she  laid  it  down  gently,  and 
said,  raising  her  eyes  steadily  to  Bertha's,  "■  Then  the  hour  is 
come  for  action  ?" 

"  Mr.  Lester  thinks  so,"  was  Bertha's  reply. 
Mildred  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  Thank  God,"  and  there  was 
a  pause. 

"  Suspicion  is  the  worst  of  all  evils,"  observed  Bertha. 
Mildred  appeared  scarcely  to  hear  her,  and  only  answered, 
"  Mr.  Lester  tells  lue  you  will  give  me  details." 

Bertha  drew  her  chair  nearer ;  it  was  an  involuntary  move- 
ment of  sympathy.  IMildred  noticed  it.  "  We  have  one 
feelin"-,"  she  said. 


CLEVE    HALL.  287 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so.     Oh  !  Miss  Yivian,  how  will  It  end  ?" 

"  Not  Miss  Vivian, — Mildred  if  you  will — we  have  so  many 
interests  in  common."     She  took  Bertha's  hand  affectionately. 

That  little  movement ! — Bertha  could  never  have  made  it 
herself, — hut  it  touched  the  secret  chord  of  cherished  and 
hidden  feelings ;  she  forgot  that  Mildred  was  a  Vivian  as  she 
answered,  ''  I  always  hear  you  called  Mildred,  but  few  call  mo 
Bertha." 

"  May  I  be  one  of  the  few  ?  It  would  seem  most  natural, 
for  Edward  calls  you  so." 

"  It  is  strange  that  he  should, — your  brother." 

"  Why  strange  ?  where  would  bis  comfort,  his  hope,  his 
children  have  been  without  you  ?  I  have  so  often  longed  to 
thank  you." 

"I  have  only  done  my  duty,"  replied  Bertha. 

''  But  none  can  do  more.  He  must  thank  you  himself.  He 
does  deeply,  heartily ;  but  perhaps  he  has  never  found  words 
to  say  it  rightly." 

"  He  has  other  things  to  think  of  than  gratitude  now," 
replied  Bertha. 

"  He  ought  not  to  have.  Yet  perhaps  we  must  forgive 
him  if  he  is  engrossed.     Is  this  determination  his  own  ?" 

"  No ;  Mr.  Lester's.  He  thinks  that  concealment  is  no 
longer  safe.  Goff  has  been  making  friends  with  one  of  the 
servants  at  the  Rectory ;  taking  the  letters  to  the  post ;  and 
we  suspect  prying  into  them.  We  can't  tell  how  much  he 
knows,  but  something,  we  are  nearly  sure,  he  has  discovered." 

Mildred  was  silent;  but  her  hand  shook  tremulously. 

Bertha  went  on.  ''  We  only  found  this  out  yesterday. 
Mr.  Lester  had  no  time  to  write,  except  those  few  lines.  He 
left  me  to  tell  you  all.  He  has  no  settled  plan  yet ;  he  says 
he  can't  form  any  till  he  has  seen  Edward;  then  he  means  to 
write  to  you,  and " 

"  And  what?"     Mildred  regarded  her  anxiousl3^ 

"  He  must  trust  to  you  to  prepare  General  Vivian's  mind 

for  the  knowledge  that  Edward  is  in  England,  unless ;  it 

struck  me  whether  it  might  be  better  that  they  should  meet 
without  preparation." 

"  No,  never  !"  Mildred  started  up.  "  I  beg  your  pardon ; 
I  did  not  mean  to  be  so  hasty ;  but  it  might  be  his  death." 

Bertha's  color  rose,  and  she  looked  much  distressed. 

"  1  know  it  has  been  Mr.  Lester's  notion,"  continued  Mil- 
dred; ^  and  it  might  have  answered  last  year,  but  my  father 
appears  very  much  shaken  within  the  last  few  months.     We 


288  CLEVE   HALL. 

mii!;lit  ruin  all  by  such  incautiousness.  No  one  knows  liim," 
she  added,  her  voice  sinkinj?.  *' Mr.  Lester  thinks  him  hard; 
he  is  hard  externally;  hard  in  his  own  eyes;  but  he  is  a 
father  still." 

"  But  there  must  be  no  delay,"  said  Bertha,  with  some- 
thins:  of  her  former  coldness  and  determination. 

Mildred  shrank  a  little  from  her  manner;  but  the  feeling 
was  scarcely  perceptible  in  her  tone,  as  she  replied,  ''No, 
indeed ;  if  there  is  danger  for  Edward,  how  could  there  be 
delay?"  Yet  she  spoke  doubtfully,  perhaps  unwilling  to 
comprehend  the  possibility  of  danger. 

"  Mr.  Lester  thinks  that  both  Captain  Vivian  and  Goff 
have  reasons  for  being  your  brother's  deadly  enemies,"  con- 
tinued Bertha. 

"  I  know  it.  There  is  a  mystery;  but  my  father  has  never 
allowed  me  to  approach  the  subject.  He  has  never  mentioned 
Edward's  name  since — since  that  fatal  day." 

"  If  they  are  his  enemies  there  must  be  danger,"  continued 
Bertha  ;  *'  they  are  both  desperate  men." 

Mildred  clasped  her  hands  iu  silent  prayer.  '■'■  The  God 
who  has  protected  him  hitherto  will  protect  him  still,''  she 
said.     "  But  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  Mr.  Lester  himself." 

"  He  felt  it  better  not  to  wait,"  replied  Bertha.  "  It  was 
only  yesterday  we  discovered  what  GofF  had  been  doing.  Of 
course  there  was  a  motive  for  his  interference.  Perhaps  it 
was  unwise  to  send  our  letters  as  we  did,  but  we  had  not  cal- 
culated on  any  risk.  It  seemed  only  natural  that  Mr.  Lester 
should  write  to  Mr.  Bruce,  and  your  letters  and  mine  were 
always  enclosed  in  his.  Mr.  Lester  said  it  was  best  to  go  to 
London  immediately,  for  he  could  not  trust  to  any  more 
letters." 

Mildred  remained  silent  for  some  seconds,  as  if  forming 
some  inward  resolution ;  then  she  looked  up  at  Bertha,  and 
said,  "  You  will  think  of  me,  and  pray  for  me ;  none  can  tell 
the  effort  it  will  be  to  speak  to  my  father." 

Bertha's  softer  feelings  were  touched ;  and  she  answered 
gently  and  kindly,  "  God's  help  is  always  with  those  who  live 
for  the  happiness  of  others." 

"  I  hope  so ;  if  one  does  live  for  that  purpose.  Yet  I  have 
never  been  able  to  make  my  father  happy." 

''  General  Vivian  does  not  give  me  the  idea  of  an  unhappy 
man,"  said  Bertha,  with  a  bluntness  whif-h  was  somewhat 
painful. 


CLEVE    HALL.  289 

"  Possibly  not.  I  have  heard  it  said  before ;  but,  Bertbn" 
— tlie  name  was  spoken  in  a  tone  of  apology — *'  must  one  not 
live  with  persons  daily  before  one  can  venture  to  judge  of  that 
deep  question  of  happiness?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Bertha  spoke  eagerly;  ''I  know  none  can 
judge." 

"  Not  the  nearest  and  dearest  at  times,"  continued  Mildred, 
''  still  less  those  who  only  see  others  as  the  world  has  seen  my 
father — in  public  meetings  and  formal  society.  It  has  been 
his  pride  to  appear  happy,  and  he  has  succeeded  with  all  but 
me." 

"  And  Mr.  Lester  and  Mrs.  Robinson,'^  observed  Bertha. 
"  They  have  always  said  that  he  was  a  crushed  and  broken- 
hearted man." 

"  The  wound  which  God  makes,  God  will  and  can  heal," 
said  Mildred.  *'  There  is  no  healing  for  that  which  we  open 
for  ourselves."  She  dashed  away  a  tear  from  her  eyes,  as  she 
added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  My  poor  father !  his  sorrow  is  greater 
than  Edward's." 

"  It  would  scarcely  seem  so  to  those  who  look  upon  them," 
observed  Bei'tha. 

"Ah!  I  forgot,"  and  Mildred's  face  became  suddenly 
animated ;  "  you  have  seen  Edward.  Is  he  changed  ?  Does 
he  look  very  old — older  than  I  do  ?"  and  she  snuled,  and  then, 
in  a  sadder  tone,  added,  "  Perhajjs  we  may  not  recognise  each 
other." 

"  He  does  not  look  like  General  Vivian's  son,"  replied 
Bertha. 

"  Then  he  is  changed, — he  was  so  like !  See,"  she  un- 
clasped her  locket,  "should  you  have  known  it?" 

"  I  should  have  remembered  it,"  replied  Bertha,  regarding 
the  miniature  closely.  The  allusion  was  painful, — for  an 
instant  it  carried  both  back  to  the  days  when  they  had  met  as 
strangers,  having  a  mutual  antipathy;  and  when  the  first 
thought  of  a  near  connexion  had  been  the  death  knell  of  their 
happiness. 

Bertha  was  the  first  to  speak  again.  "  Ella  is  like  it,"  she 
Baid. 

"  Yes,  very;  much  more  so  than  Clement,  though  they  aro 
twins." 

"  There  is  such  talent  in  it,"  said  Bertha,  still  looking  at 
the  miniature. 
13 


2U0  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  Yoi^,  but  Ella  will  surpass  both  her  father  and  lier  brothe? 
iu  that.     She  is  wonderfully  clever." 

"  Talent  thrown  away,"  said  Bertha,  shortly. 

Her  tone  was  like  the  openiuir  of  a  closed  door  to  Mildred. 
It  revealed  such  intricacies  of  feeling.  "  Is  it  thrown  away  ?" 
she  asked  with  some  hesitation. 

"  It  may  not  be  yet,  but  it  will  be.    It  produces  no  fruits." 

"It  wants  culture,"  observed  Mildred. 

"  A  great  deal  has  been  given  her,  but  it  is  useless." 

''  She  seems  young  to  say  so." 

"  Yes,  if  she  were  not  so  clever." 

*'  But  disproportionate  talent  becomes  awkwardness,"  con 
tinued  Mildred. 

"  That  didn't  strike  me  before.  I  don't  know  now  that  1 
can  tell  what  it  means." 

Mildred  waited  for  a  moment.  An  effort  was  needed  foi 
the  reply,  which  at  the  moment  she  could  scarcely  make.  Yet 
she  conqucied  her  reluctance,  and  turning  from  the  subject 
of  all  engrossing  interest,  answered  in  a  tone  as  unconperned 
as  Bertha's  :  "  Moral  powers  and  mental  powers  take  different 
times  for  growth,  I  imagine.  Mental  powers  appear  to  spring 
up  rapidly,  whilst  moral  powers  require  a  lifetime  to  come  to 
anything  like  maturity.  So  one  is  continually  struck  with  a 
sense  of  disproportion  between  talent  and  goodness,  and  then 
comes  disappointment." 

*'  Certainly,  I  don't  know  a  more  disappointing  person  than 
Ella,"  observed  Bertha,  in  the  same  cold  tone. 

"  I  think  she  is  very  disappointing  till  one  begins  to  under- 
stand her." 

"  Understanding  doesn't  help  me,"  observed  Bertha. 

"Doesn't  it?  I  should  have  thought  it  would  have  kept 
you  from  expecting  too  much." 

"  But  how  can  you  help  expecting  a  great  deal  from  a 
person  who  can  talk  and  reason  like  a  woman  of  thirty  when 
she  is  only  sixteen,  and  can  acquire  more  knowledge  in  a  day 
than  others  can  in  months,  or  years  ?" 

"  According  to  my  theory  this  is  only  intellectual  growth," 
said  Mildred,  "  and  therefore  must  not  be  depended  upon  for 
action." 

"  But  it  ought  to  be  power,"  said  Bertha. 

"Scarcely, — I  should  say  indeed  that  it  tends  rather  to 
weakness,  like  any  other  want  of  proportion." 

Bertha  looked  doubtful,  and  again  Mildred  was  obliged  to 


CLEVE    HALL.  291 

(irge  herself  to  continue  the  conversation  by  remembering  that 
it  might  be  long  before  a  like  opportunity  would  recur. 

'*  I  confess  to  having  a  theory  about  proportion,  veiy  vague, 
and  perhaps  very  unfounded, — but  one  must  think  of  some- 
thing when  one  is  obliged  to  spend  hours  alone  ujion  a  sofa; 
— an  idea,  it  is,  that  the  principles  of  all  beauty  both  physical 
and  moral  are  to  be  found  in  proportion,  that  perfect  beauty  is 
nothing  more  than  perfect  proportion, — and  that  perfect  good- 
ness is  the  same.  But  all  that  is  very  dreamy,  and  not  much 
to  the  purpose ;  only  I  think  one  can  see  as  one  goes  on  in  life, 
that  the  characters  which  leave  the  most  lasting  impress  upon 
the  world  are  those  in  which  the  mental  and  moral  powers  are 
the  most  equally  balanced.  So  I  fancy,  if  I  had  the  manage- 
ment of  a  child,  that  is  what  I  should  the  most  strive  to  attain." 

"  And  if  you  had  the  management  of  Ella  what  should 
you  do  ?" 

"  I  can  scarcely  tell  till  I  h:ive  .seen  what  she  is  at  home." 

"  But  you  can  form  some  idea ;  what  is  it  you  think  she 
wants  ?" 

"Sunshine,"  said  Mildred,  .smiling;  and  seeing  that 
Bertha  looked  a  little  annoyed  at  not  receiving  a  clearer 
answer,  she  continued,  "  Ella's  intellectual  growth  seems 
to  have  been  so  rapid  as  to  cast  a  shade  over  her  moral 
growth,  if  one  may  so  speak.  Perhaps,  therefore,  she  wants 
hope,  encouragement,  cheerful  sympathy,  and  patience,  to 
expand  and  foster  her  better  feelings.  She  is  morbid  now,  and 
wayward,  and  has  a  great  tendency  to  unreality." 

"  She  is  very  unreal,"  observed  Bertha. 

''Would  she  be  if  she  understood  herself'/"  inquired 
Mildred.  "  She  deceives  herself  now  because  she  fancies  that 
talking  of  goodness,  which  is  an  effort  of  the  mind,  is  the  same 
thing  as  carrying  it  out  in  practice,  which  is  the  work  of  the 
heart.  But  I  tliink  she  is  beginning  to  open  her  eyes  to  the 
vast  difference  ;  when  she  sees  it  clearly  the  danger  I  should 
fear  would  be  despair." 

"  She  does  have  fits  of  despondency  now,"  observed 
Bertha. 

"  And  I  suppose  then  the  right  thing  would  be  to  give  her 
encouragement,"  said  Mildred. 

"  It  is  so  difficult,  when  she  is  continually  vexing  and  dis- 
appointing one,"  replied  Bertha. 

"Still,  without  encouragement — without  sunshine, — how 
can  there  be  any  growth  ?"  asked  Mildred,  gently. 


2'J2  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  are  right.  I  dare  say  I  luaiinge  lier 
very  badly." 

"She  must  be  exceedingly  trying,  —  especially  to  a  per- 
son who  has  fixed  principles  of  right,  and  always  acts  upon 
thoni." 

"  Not  always,"  said  Bertha  quiclcly,  "very  seldom." 

Mildred  siiiiled.  "  Perhaps  others  can  judge  for  us  better 
than  we  can  of  ourselves  on  such  points." 

"I  know  we  ought  to  give  sympathy,"  said  Bertha. 

"Yes,  because  one  receives  it;  and  what  should  one  be 
without  it  ?" 

A  shade  of  sorrowful  thought  crossed  Bertha's  face ;  she 
said  abruptly,  "  Can  people  acquire  sympathy  V 

"  I  think — I  hope  so.  Most  of  us  have  very  little  of  it  by 
nature." 

"  I  have  none." 

"  Oh  !  indeed,  indeed  !"  Mildred  raised  herself  up  eagerly ; 
"  if  you  had  not  sympathy,  how  could  you  have  done  what  you 
have?  And  Mr.  Lester  tells  me  of  others  who  are  indebted 
to  you.     Ronald  Vivian,  for  instance." 

"  That  is  from  circumstances,"  replied  Bertha,  her  changing 
voice  showing  the  quickness  of  her  feelings. 

"  But  if  we  have  sympathy  in  any  one  case,  it  proves  that 
we  have  the  power  within  us,  only  we  may  not  know  how  to 
exercise  it." 

"  Then  it  is  useless." 

"  Yes,  till  we  teach  ourselves  better." 

"  That  is  the  question.  I  don't  think  we  can  teach  our- 
selves ;  it  is  a  feeling." 

"  But  we  make  ourselves  feel  by  action." 
"  I    don't   know   that.     I    can   act   well   without   feeling 
at  all." 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  understand  yourself,"  said  Mildred. 
"I  am  sure  you  feel  a  great  deal  more  than  you  know." 

"  Whatever  sympathy  I  may  have,  it  is  not  enough  for  the 
children,"  said  }3ertha, 

"  It  may  be  their  fault  in  a  great  degree ;  and  they  must 
be  so  different  from  you." 

"  Yes,  Ella  and  Fanny  are,  and  Clement  too.  I  can  under- 
stand Louisa  better." 

"  But  I  suppose  it  may  be  possible  to  practise  putting 
oneself  in  the  place  of  the  children/'  said  Mildred,  "  trying 


CLEVE    HALL.  293 

as  a  matter  of  reason  to  see  with  tlieir  eyes  and  feel  -witli  tlieir 
foelia<i;s." 

''  But  reason  won't  be  of  any  use,"  persisted  Bertha. 

"  I  should  have  thought  it  might  be.  I  should  have 
imagined  that  it  was  one  of  the  chief  instruments  which 
Cxod  has  given  us  to  help  us  to  guide  others;  one  of  the 
great  causes  of  the  superiority  of  a  mature  mind  over  a  young 
one." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Bertha,  as  shortly  as  before, 
but  with  a  greater  show  of  interest. 

Mildred  felt  that  she  must  follow  the  leading  of  her  strange 
companion,  who  seemed  to  have  no  perception  that  this  was 
not  the  moment  for  carrying  on  abstract  in(|uiries  upon  educa- 
tion, so  she  continued  : 

"  I  suppose  this  kind  of  reasoning,  and  trying  to  place  one- 
self in  the  position  of  another,  is  the  best  way  of  learning 
sympathy;  and  children  we  see  can't  avail  themselves  of  it 
thoroughly,  for  they  don't  know  what  a  grown-up  person  feels. 
]5ut  we  have  passed  through  childhood  and  youth,  and  have 
only  to  make  an  effort  of  memory  to  recall  our  own  difficulties, 
and  by  that  means  understand  their  troubles." 

''  But  all  children  are  not  alike,"  persisted  Bertha. 
"  How  is  it  possible  to  reason  upon  feelings  which  we  have 
never  had  ?" 

"  Imagination,  I  suppose,  may  help  us,"  said  Mildred, 
''and  books — fiction,  which  many  grave  people  laugh  at. 
AVhatever  displays  human  nature  truly,  is  an  assistance  to 
the  lesson  of  sympathy.  And  then  too  the  least  sympathy 
invites  confidence,  and  confidence  is  experience,  and  expe- 
rience enables  us  to  give  greater  sympathy.  You  see  there 
is  a  continued  re-action  if  we  can  only  make  up  our  minds  to 
begin." 

"  And  how  would  you  show  Ella  sympathy  ?"  inquired 
Bertha,  her  mind  turning  at  once  from  general  theories  to  a 
direct  object. 

"■  I  know  hf)w  I  shoiild  act  myself,"  I'cplied  jMildred.  "  I 
could  not  venture  to  say  what  any  other  person  should  do." 

"But  what  would  you  do  yourself?" 

"  1  think  I  should  try  always  to  bear  in  mind  her  constitu- 
tional iniloleiice,  and  so,  as  a  beginning,  not  expect  her  to  be 
energetic ;  and  whenever  she  did  exert  herself,  1  shimld  praise 
licr,  even  for  a  very  slight  amount  of  encgy.  Then  as  to  her 
pride  and  self-will,  I  should   endeavor  to  'uakc  allowance  for 


294  CLEVE    nALL, 

tluMii,  by  jiidiiino;  licr  not  accordinc;  to  what  strictly  spoaki!!*^ 
she  oii,!j;iit  to  bo,  but  according  to  the  cft'ort  which  she  would 
need  to  be  humble  and  obedient.  I  should  remember  too  that 
her  very  talents  are  her  temptation,  causing  her  to  be  carried 
away  by  feeling  and  excitement,  and  I  should  try  to  throw 
myself  into  her  pursuits,  for  the  very  purpose  of  being  a 
balance  to  her  mind.  Perhaps  by  this  kind  of  watchfulness  [ 
might  avoid  irritating  her  or  being  irritated  myself,  which  I 
tun  sure  I  should  be  otherwise." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Bertha,  speaking  more  freely  when  she 
found  that  Mildred  could  share,  or  at  least  comprehend  her 
diiHculties,  "that  is  the  great  trouble,  after  all;  she  is  pro- 
voking, and  I  am  angry,  and  then  I  dare  say  I  speak  out 
quickly." 

"She  has  made  me  speak  out  quickly  several  times  since 
she  has  been  here,"  replied  Mildred.  "  I  am  just  beginning 
to  learn  to  think  twice  before  I  find  fault." 

"  But  don't  you  find  that  spoils  her?"  inquired  Bertha. 
"  I  am  sure  people  require  to  be  stirred  by  a  quick  word  now 
and  then." 

"  Quick  words  are  sometimes  very  good  for  quick  natures," 
replied  Mildred,  "  but  I  doubt  if  they  are  good  with  slow 
ones." 

"  Ella  slow  !  oh,  no;  she  is  immensely  quick." 

"  Intellectually,  not  morally.  I  think  quick  words  repel 
her,  and  make  her  creep  like  a  snail  into  its  shell.  Besides, 
I  fancy  they  only  do  if  one  is  generally  very  affectionate  in 
manner;  that  in  a  degree  neutralizes  the  quickness." 

"And  I  am  not  affectionate,  I  know,"  said  Beiiha,  can- 
didly.     "  I  dare  say  Ella  has  complained  of  me." 

"  She  thinks  you  are  more  fond  of  the  little  ones,"  was 
Mildred's  evasive  answer,  and  Bertha,  not  satisfied,  put  the 
question  again  more  directly. 

"  I  can  scarcely  call  it  complaint,"  replied  IMildrcd.  "  She 
thiidis  you  don't  understand  heV,  but  she  is  quite  aware  that 
a  great  deal  is  her  own  fault." 

"  And  do  you  understand  her?"  inquired  Bertha,  quickly. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  do,  but  I  see  some  things  in  her 
very  like  my  brother.  I  don't  encourage  her,  though,  in  that 
notion  of  not  being  understood;  it  is  an  excuse  for  a  great 
deal  of  sentimentality,  and  even  selfishness  of  feeling  in  young 
piMple.  I  always  tell  her  that  you  and  every  one  else  wouhl 
understand  her  if  she  would  oidy  try  to  act  up  to  her  princi- 


CLEVE   HALL.  295 

pies,  and  be  humble  and  considerate ;  but  it  is  such  an  age  for 
moods,  aud  fancies,  and  pet  griefs,  one  must  be  merciful  tc 
it." 

Bertha  had  not  been  at  all  merciful  to  Mildred,  who  wag 
nearly  tired  out,  but  there  had  been  a  painful  fascination  in 
this  conversation  with  a  person  whom  hitherto  she  had  regard- 
ed with  a  kind  of  respectful  antipathy,  which  carried  her  be- 
yond what  she  had  in  any  way  intended.  It  was  a  pleasure 
to  be  drawn  on,  even  though  in  a  certain  degree  against  her 
will.  She  did  not  see  that  on  Mildred's  side  there  was  a 
continual  effort  j  she  only  felt  that  even  if  they  differed, 
they  were  not  antagonistic.  Mildred  had  said  nothing 
hard  of  Ella,  quite  the  contrary ;  yet  she  could  see  and  ac- 
knowledge her  faults :  and  neither  had  she  been  flattering  to 
herself;  .she  had  suggested,  indeed,  several  possible  blunders  in 
education,  but  it  was  always  as  though  she  hei\self  was  the  person 
liable  to  make  them.  The  effect  of  ^he  conversation  was  un- 
questionably soothing,  and  when  at  length  Bertha  was  recalled 
from  it  by  the  striking  of  the  clock,  which  warned  her  that  it 
was  time  to  return  home,  she  rose  with  evident  regret. 

The  feeling  was  not  shared  by  IMildred, — solitude,  leisure 
for  thought,  was  her  one  longing  desire.  Yet  even  then  she 
could  throw  herself  into  Bertha's  character ;  and  she  asked 
again,  as  a  special  favor,  that  Ella  might  be  allowed  to  remain. 

It  was  a  well-timed  and  well-turned  request.  Bertha 
liked  deference.  She  was  a  little  sensitive  as  to  her  position 
with  the  children,  and  had  an  undefined  dread  of  Mildred's 
influence  and  interference.  Two  aunts  on  different  sides  might 
very  well  have  found  matter  for  disagreement ;  but  Mildred 
was  thoroughly  unselfish,  and  had  no  love  of  power.  Bertha's 
answer  was  very  cordial.  She  was  quite  sure  that  her  mother 
would  consent;  there  could  not  be  any  objection  if  Geuerai 
Vivian  liked  it. 

The  point  settled,  Ella  was  summoned. 

The  look  of  delight  which  followed  the  announcement  of 
the  permission  was  a  little  painful  to  Bertha;  but  she  had 
learnt  something,  much,  indeed,  in  that  half  hour's  interview 
with  Mildred,  and,  instead  of  thinking  of  her  own  chilled 
feelings,  she  threw  herself  into  Ella's  pleasure.  "  Shall  you 
want  any  books  sent  you,  Ella  ?  The  Cleve  carrier  will  call 
to-morrow  morning." 

"  Aunt  Bertha,  thank  you  !  yes;"  and  Ella's  eyes  sparkled 
at  this  unlooked-for  instance  of  consideration.  She  ran  out 
of  the  room  to  make  out  a  list. 


206  CLEVE    HALL. 

liortlia  (Trow  near  to  Mildred.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  she 
perceived  that  the  couvcrsation  had  been  carried  on  too  k)ii<z;. 
Yet  Mildred  smiled,  and  said  she  should  be  quite  well  after 
luncheon. 

"  Stronfj  people  forget  what  weak  ones  feel,"  said  Bertha, 
in  a  tone  of  self-reproach. 

"  And  weak  ones  are  a  great  trouble  and  burden  to  strong 
ones;  but  I  am  most  grateful  to  you  for  having  come." 

"  I  hope  I  shan't  forget  what  you  have  said,"  observed 
Bertha,  bluntly. 

Mildred  smiled.  '■'■  I  dare  say  I  make  many  mistakes.  It 
is  all  theory, — I  have  had  no  practical  experience." 

"  But  you  must  have  thought  a  good  deal." 

"About  my  own  faults;  that  teaches  more  than  anything." 

"  May  I  come  and  see  you  again  sometimes  r"' 

A  very  awkward  question.  General  Vivian  might  not  at 
all  like  to  see  IMiss  Campbell  frequently  at  his  house. 

Mildred  could  only  answer  it  honestly.  "  Will  you  let  me 
write  and  a.sk  you  to  come?     It  may  be  the  best  plan." 

Bertha  understood,  and  colored  deeply. 

"  It  is  not  my  will,  nor  my  doing,  you  will  believe,  I  am 
sure,"  said  Mildred,  timidly. 

Bertha  felt  very  contradictory,  but  she  was  too  good  to  give 
way  to  the  feeling.  "  I  suppose  it  may  be  the  best  plan,"  she 
answered,  in  a  tone  tolerably  free  from  restraint. 

"  Thank  you  very  much  for  understanding ;  but  I  shall 
hear  from  you." 

"  Yes ;  if  there  is  anything  to  communicate.  I  scarcely 
see  what  there  can  be." 

"One  lives  always  in  fear  and  expectation,"  said  Mildred. 
She  sighed,  and  the  sigh  revealed  to  Bertha  that  the  sister's 
anxiety  was  far  keener  than  her  own  could  be. 

She  rcproacled  herself,  and  said,  "I  have  been  troubling 
you  about  Ella,  and  asking  your  advice, — I  ought  not  to  have 
done  it  now." 

"  It  has  done  me  good,  by  distracting  my  thoughts.  I  shall 
try  not  to  tliiuk  till  the  time  comes.  Mr.  Lester,  you  suppose, 
will  write  to-morrow  ?" 

"  I  imagine  so.  He  was  going  direct  to  your  brother,  and 
I  know  he  is  anxious  that  no  time  should  be  lost." 

"  Then  God  help  us  all !"  said  31ildred;  and  Bertha  silently 
echoed  the  prayer. 

Ella  came  back  a'jain  •\yith  the  list  of  books,  and  asked  a 


CLEVE    HALL.  207 

pood  many  qiiestions  aboiit  liome,  to  which  Bei'tha  answered 
iully  and  kindly;  but  Miklred  did  not  speak  aoaiu  until  just 
at  the  last  moment,  when,  as  Bertha  was  wishing-  her  a  final 
good-b'ye,  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  low  as  to  be  inaudible  to  Ella, 
"  If  Mr.  Lester  is  away,  keep  Clement  at  home." 

*'  Yes,  if  I  can ;  but  he  is  so  wilful." 

Bertha  departed;  and  Mildred,  too  tired  to  talk  more  to 
Ella,  or  even  to  listen  to  readinc:,  lay  quite  still,  thinkina;  upon 
the  practical  experience  which  life  had  given  her  of  all  that  is 
involved  in  that  common  word — wilful. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


"  TTAS  the  postman  been  yet,  Louisa?"  It  was  Mrs.  Camp- 
XJ_  bell's  question  when  she  came  down  to  breakfast  on 
the  second  day  after  Bertha's  visit  to  the  Hall,  and  it  was 
addressed  to  Louisa  as  a  matter  of  course,  for  no  one  else  was 
so  certain  to  be  on  the  watch — at  least  so  Mrs.  Canq)bel] 
thought.  She  was  not  awai'e  that  Bertha,  in  her  anxiety,  had 
stationed  herself  at  the  shrubbery  gate  to  intercept  the  letters 
before  they  were  delivered  at  the  house.  Louisa's  answer  was 
in  the  negative ;  but  almost  immediately  afterwards  Bertha 
entered,  laid  the  letters  on  the  table,  and  left  the  room. 
Louisa  saw  that  Bertha  had  secured  her  own  ;  Mrs.  Campbell 
saw  nothing  but  that  there  was  a  long  epistle  from  an  old 
friend,  and  this  she  began  to  read. 

Bertha  came  back  to  read  prayers  and  make  breakfast; 
again,  no  one  but  Louisa  noticed  that  she  was  less  quiet  and 
indifferent  than  usual,  and  certainly  no  one  else  would  have 
had  the  quickness  to  suspect  the  cause,  or  the  overweening 
curiosity  to  inquire  into  it.  But  Louisa  had  no  mercy  when 
the  indulgence  of  her  besetting  propensity  was  in  question, 
and  as  soon  as  they  were  seated  at  the  breakfast  table  sho 
began  the  attack.     "  Aunt  Bertha,  when  is  Mr.  Lester  coming 

back  r 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear." 

"  I}ut  he  is  only  gone  for  a  few  days,  is  he  ?" 

"  I  can't  say,  my  dear." 

"  Ilachel  said  she  hoped  he  would  return  soon." 


298  CLEVE    HALL, 

"  Vory  possll)] y,  my  dc.'ir." 

A  pause,  and  a  little  diversion  of  Louisa's  tliouuhts,  froiu 
the  fact  that  Betsy  came  in  with  a  inessa<!;c  from  a  poor  woman, 
whii^h  of  course  she  fully  attended  to.  But  she  be<>;an  again. 
"  3Ir.  Lester  is  gone  to  London,  isn't  he,  Aunt  Bertha?"  . 

"  I  believe  so." 

"  Rachel  said  she  thought  you  would  hear  if  he  were  com- 
ing back  to-day  or  to-morrow,  because  he  told  her  that  perhaps 
he  might  be  obliged  to  send  her  a  message  through  you  instead 
of  writing  himself." 

"  Perhaps  so." 

"But  can't  I  give  the  message  for  you ?  I  am  going  up 
to  the  Rectory  after  breakfast." 

"  Thank  you,  Louisa," — Bertha's  tone  was  chilling  and  re- 
proachful,— "  but  I  can  take  care  of  my  own  messages." 

"Oh  1  I  beg  your  pardon,  Aunt  Bertha;  I  only  meant  to 
save  you  the  trouble."  Louisa  was  satisfied  then.  She  had 
learnt  what  she  wished  to  know,  that  Mr.  Lester  had  written. 
She  went  on  :  "  Then  if  Mr.  Lester  doesn't  come  back,  Rachel 
may  come  and  stay  here,  mayn't  she  ?" 

"  We  will  see  about  it." 

Here  Mrs.  Campbell  interposed:  "1  can't  have  Rachel 
staying  here.  She  can  come  to  drink  tea  as  she  did  last 
night;  but  I  don't  want  her  this  week;  the  servants  are 
busy." 

"  Mr.  Lester  must  be  coming  back  by  Saturday,"  persisted 
Louisa,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"  Very  likely,  my  dear,  but  I  can't  have  Rachel  staying 
here;  t  won't  allow  it." 

Louisa  looked  extremely  disconcerted,  and  repeated  that 
Mr.  Lester  would  be  at  home  on  Saturday,  and  then  they 
should  not  have  Rachel  for  weeks. 

"  Louisa,  that  is  very  perverse,"  said  Bertha.  "  You  know 
that  iMr.  Lester  never  objects  to  Rachel's  comina  here,  except 
when  she  has  some  special  engagement  at  home." 

"  I  don't  understand.  What  is  all  this  fuss  about  Rachel 
and  Mr.  Lester?"  inquired  Mrs.  Campbell. 

Bertha's  quick  reply  was,  "  Oh  !  nothing  of  any  conse- 
quence ;"  which  did  not  satisfy  Mrs.  Campbell. 

"But  where  is  Mr.  Lester?  When  did  you  say  he  waa 
coming  home  ?" 

"  Some  time  this  week  he  hopes  it  iriay  be,"  replied  Bertha. 

"  When  he  does  come  he  can  bring  down  that  packet  of 


CLEVE    HALL.  299 

tea  for  iis,"  obsen'ed  Mrs.  Campbell.  "  Hemciubor  you  ask 
him,  Bertha." 

''  I  don't  know  the  exact  day  when  he  is  coming/'  replied 
Bertha. 

"  He  must  be  back  by  Sunday,"  persisted  Louisa. 

"  Or  he  must  have  some  one  to  take  his  duty,"  observed 
Fanny,  delighted  at  the  idea  of  novelty. 

"  He  will  sure  to  be  back  by  Saturday,"  said  Clement,  in 
a  very  moody  tone.     "  I  never  knew  him  stay  away  yet." 

"  What  is  to  keep  him,  Bertha;  do  you  know  ?  Have  you 
heard  from  him  ?" 

Louisa's  eyes  sparkled  with  amusement.  Her  grand- 
mamma had  asked  precisely  the  qucstiou  she  was  longing  to 
put. 

Bertha  could  not  avoid  a  direct  answer.  "  I  had  a  few 
lines  from  him  this  morning,"  she  said.  "  He  does  not  men- 
tion when  he  shall  be  at  home." 

"  But  is  it  business  he  is  gone  for,  or  what?  It  was  quite 
a  sudden  notion." 

"  Rachel  said  she  thought  he  was  gone  to  see  a  friend/' 
observed  Louisa. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,  I  didn't  ask  you.  Pray  don't  answer 
unless  you  are  spoken  to.  Your  aunt  will  tell  me.  Is  it  any 
friend  we  know.  Bertha?" 

Louisa  whispered  loudly  to  Fanny  that  she  was  sure  it  was 
Mr.  Bruce,  because  she  happened  to  see  the  direction  of  a 
parcel  Mr.  Lester  took  with  him,  and  it  was  the  same  as  that 
on  Mr.  Bruce's  letters;  and  Fanny  communicated  the  fact  to 
Clement ;  whilst  Bertha,  blushing  and  hesitating,  answered, 
evasively,  that  she  never  inquired  into  Mr.  Lester's  private 
affairs. 

"  That  is  no  answer,  my  dear  Bertha ;  what  is  all  this 
mystery  ?  I  can't  bear  mysteries.  Why  shouldn't  you  say 
to  me  that  he  is  gone  to  see  Mr.  Bruce,  if  he  is  gone  ?"  Mrs. 
Campbell  spoke  very  fretfully,  and  Louisa  glanced  at  Clement 
in  triumph. 

Bertha  felt  slie  must  speak  out  at  once  :  "  Mr.  Lester  talked 
of  seeing  Mr.  Bruce,"  she  replied;  "and  he  says  to-day  that 
he  is  kept  in  London,  because  Mr.  Bruce  is  not  very  well.  He 
doesn't  mention  the  day  of  his  return,  and  he  thinks  it  may 
be  necessary  to  provide  for  his  Sunday  duty.  He  writes,  be- 
sides, about  some  little  parish  matters." 

*'  Well !  but  let  me  see  the  letter;  can't  you  show  it  me  ?'' 


300  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  'I'liL-rc  arc  one  or  two  tilings  private  in  it,"  said  Bcrtlia ; 
''  1  am  airaitl  he  wouldn't  like  it." 

Tliat  was  sutlicient  to  annoy  IMrs.  Campbell  for  the  Avholo 
day.  It"  Loui.sa  had  wished  to  render  every  one  about  her 
uncomfortable,  .she  had  most  certainly  succeeded  ;  and  she  had 
ptiiiished  herself  too,  for  she  was  veiy  ((uiek  in  discovering 
tlie  impression  she  had  made,  and  could  see  plainly  that  it  was 
not  likely  to  be  a  smooth  day  with  Aunt  ]3ertha. 

She  said  very  little  during  the  remainder  of  the  breakfast, 
and  when  it  was  over  went  up  to  Clement. 

"  Clement,  what  is  the  matter  about  Mr.  Lester  and  JMr. 
Bruce  ?  and  why  does  Aunt  Bertha  make  such  a  mystery  about 
it  all  V 

"I  don't  know;  how  should  I?"  was  Clement's  blunt 
reply. 

"  But  you  do  know  something,  I  am  sure." 

"  Not  I.     How  you  do  tease,  Louisa  !" 

"  And  how  cross  you  are,  Clement !  and  you  were  cross  all 
yesterday;  it  was  that  reckoning  made  you  cross.  Who  gave 
it  to  you  to  do  'i  Did  Mr.  Lester?" 

"Nonsense,  nobody.  What  on  earth  do  you  pry  into  my 
concerns  for?"  Clement  spoke  A'ery  impatiently,  and  made 
his  escape  as  soon  as  he  could ;  Louisa  looking  after  him,  and 
thinking  that  something  strange  must  be  going  on,  when 
every  one  was  so  easily  put  out.  And  what  was  Clement 
calculating  ?     She  would  find  out  that,  if  she  did  nothing  else. 

Bertha  had  a  better  excuse  for  being  put  out  than  any  one 
else.  The  last  thing  she  would  have  desired  was  that  the 
children  or  her  mother  should  believe  there  was  at  this  time  a 
mystery  connected  with  Mr.  Lester's  movements.  There  was 
enough  to  make  her  anxious,  without  the  dread  of  incaution 
and  idle  curiosity  in  those  with  whom  she  lived. 

Mr.  Lester's  letter  was  short,  and  by  no  means  satisfactory. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Campbell, 
''  I  arrived  yesterday,  about  five  o'clock,  and  found  my 
friend  very  far  from  well.  He  has  had  an  attack  of  influenza, 
which  confines  him  to  his  bed.  He  is  improving,  but  1  don't 
think  it  would  quite  do  to  let  him  travel  to-morrow.  It  is 
possible  that  I  shall  be  obliged  to  make  arrangements  for  hav- 
ing my  Sunday  duty  taken  ;  the  week  days  are  provided  for. 
I  have  not  been  able  to  say  anything  about  business.  I  will 
write  atrain  as  soon  as  I  can.     I  shall  send  a  few  lines  to  Miss 


CLEVE    HALL.  301 

Vivian.     Will  you  please  give  tlie  enclosed  note  to  Raeliel. 
1  trust  her  quite  to  your  care. 

"  In  haste,  most  sincerely  yours, 

"  Robert  Lester." 

In  the  postscript  were  a  few  directions  about  some  pooi 
people,  whom  Bertha  was  taking  charge  of;  and  the  last  words 
were,  "  I  need  scarcely  urge  upon  you  caution  and  great  watch- 
fulness, especially  as  regards  occupying  Clement,  and  keeping 
him  out  of  mischief.  You  may  be  certain  I  shall  return  the 
very  earliest  day  possible." 

Perhaps  Bertha  could  scarcely  have  expected,  in  reason, 
anything  more  decisive  in  this,  Mr.  Lester's  first  letter;  but 
suspense  was  intensely  trying  to  her,  and  now  it  was  aggra- 
vated by  the  knowledge  of  Edward  Vivian's  illness,  which 
might  protract  it  considerably.  She  felt  sadly  faithless,  and 
conscience  painfully  reproached  her  for  it ;  but  it  seemed  as 
if,  for  the  first  time,  the  magnitude  of  the  interests  at  stake 
were  revealed  to  her. 

It  was  as  though  she  had  gone  on  in  a  dream  of  hope  for 
years  before,  never  really  hoping  or  expecting  anything  ;  talk- 
ing of  the  changes  which  might  some  day  come,  without  really 
anticipating  them.  Only  within  the  last  few  days,  since  Mr. 
Lester  himself  had  acknowledged  that  the  moment  for  action 
was  arrived,  had  she  dared  to  realize  to  herself  the  possibility 
of  success  or  of  failure. 

It  required  all  Bertha's  conscientiousness  to  bring  her  mind 
to  the  contemplation  of  her  ordinary  work.  But  she  was  a 
person  who  could  never  waste  time  in  useless  regrets  or  fears ; 
each  hour  in  the  day  had  its  occupation  marked,  and  she  was 
almost  scrupulously  exact  in  keeping  to  it.  A  few  minutes 
of  leisure  were  however  always  to  be  found  directly  after 
breakfast,  whilst  the  children  were  preparing  their  lessons; 
and,  taking  advantage  of  them,  she  pleased  herself  by  carrying 
Uachel's  note  to  the  Rectory  instead  of  sending  it.  There 
Was  something  in  the  gay  smile  and  the  afi'ectionate  glance 
that  would  meet  her  there,  which  was  soothing  even  when  she 
could  not  open  her  mind,  and  tell  all  her  anxieties  ;  and  per- 
haps one  of  Bertha's  few  self-deceptions  might  have  been 
discovered  in  the  excuses  which  she  made,  when  anything 
particularly  vexatious  had  occurred  at  the  Lodge,  to  go  to  the 
Rectory,  and  spend  a  quarter  of  an  hour  with  Rachel. 

Rachel  was  met  in  the  porch,  with  her  bonnet  and  shawl 


302  CLEVE   HALL. 

on.  She  lincl  expected  a  letter,  and  not  receiving  one,  was 
going  to  the  Jjodgc  to  make  in(|iiiric.s.  8he  ran  up  to  BiM'tha 
eagerly:  "Dear  Miss  Campbell,  how  kind  of  you!  and  you 
have  a  note  !"  She  seized  it  eagerly,  and  then  recollecting 
herself,  added:  "  May  I  read  it?  you  won't  think  it  rude? 
But  you  must  come  in  and  sit  down  by  the  fire;  it  is  very  culd 
this  morning." 

Even  in  her  anxiety  for  news  from  her  father,  she  could 
not  forget  consideration  for  one  present  with  her ;  and  Bertha 
was  taken  into  the  study,  and  the  fire  was  stirred,  and  she  was 
made  to  unfasten  her  cloak,  and  then  llachel  turned  away  to  the 
window  to  peruse  her  precious  note.  It  was  read  through  twice, 
and  a  kiss  given  to  the  naTne  at  the  bottom ;  but  still  Rachel  stood 
looking  out  of  the  window  with  a  watery  mist  dimming  her 
eyes.  Bertha,  seated  by  the  fire,  waited  patiently.  She  knew 
well  the  struggle  that  was  going  on  in  the  poor  child's  mind. 
Rachacl  had  never  calculated  upon  the  possibility  of  her 
father's  being  away  more  than  two  days.  But  it  was  a  calm 
voice  which  spoke  at  last,  only  rather  lower  and  more  restrained 
in  its  accent  than  was  wont;  and  if  tears  were  gathering  in 
Rachel's  eyes,  they  were  not  allowed  to  go  further,  as  she  stood 
again  by  JJcrtha's  side,  and  said :  "  He  doesn't  know  when  he 
shall  come  back." 

"  Not  exactly  the  day,  dear  Rachel ;  but  it  can't  be  long." 

"  Can't  it  ?  but  he  promised,  he  thought  he  should  be  back 
to-morrow."  A  rush  of  sorrow  rose  up  in  Rachel's  throat, 
but  she  swallowed  it  with  a  strong  effort.  "  I  don't  mean  to 
be  wrong.  Miss  Campbell,  I  want  to  bear  it, — I  will," — and 
there  was  another  effort  at  self-command. 

■"  Yes,  because  small  trials  come  to  us  from  the  same  Hand 
as  great  ones." 

"  Thank  you ;"  and  Rachel  put  herarm  fondly  round  Bertha; 
"  that  is  just  what  pupa  would  say.  It  does  me  more  good 
than  telling  me  the  time  will  soon  pass,"  she  added,  as  an 
April  smile  brightened  her  face.  '•'  But  you  think  he  will 
come  ?" 

"  Certainly,  the  very  first  day  he  can.  He  must,  you  know, 
for  the  sake  of  his  parish." 

"  And  for  mine  ;  what  shovdd  I  do  without  him  ?  It  is  so 
lonely." 

That  was  a  little  unmeant  reproach  to  Bertha.  It  seemed 
very  hard  that  she  could  not  at  once  take  Rachel  to  the  Lodge, 
but  she  knew  it  would  not  do  to  propose  it.     Her  mind  was 


CLEVE    HALL.  303 

Bet  at  rest,  liowever,  by  Rachel's  saying :  ''  Papa  tells  me  that 
if  I  don't  hear  from  him  about  his  coming  home  to-morrow, 
he  shall  ask  Aunt  JMiklred  to  let  me  go  to  the  Hall.  I  shall 
enjoy  that  excessively,  but  it  won't  be  like  having  papa." 

"  You  will  have  Ella,  too,  as  a  companion,"  said  Bertha. 

'•  Shall  I  ?  How  very  nice  1  Yet  I  thought  she  was  coming 
back."  _ 

''  Miss  Vivian  wants  her  to  stay.  She  thinks  her  grandpapa 
will  like  it." 

*'  Will  he  really  ?"  Rachel  seemed  about  to  add  something 
very  energetic;  but  she  stopped,  and  concluded  by  saying, 
"Did  you  see  Aunt  Mildred  yesterday?" 

"  Yes,  for  an  hour  nearly.     We  had  a  long  talk." 

"  And  you  think — yes,  I  am  sure  you  think  as  I  do — that 
she  is  very — I  don't  know  what  to  say — not  at  all  like  any  one 
else." 

"No,  very  unlike." 

"  And  Ella  is  so  fond  of  her  !"  continued  Rachel.  "  She 
sent  me  a  little  note  the  other  day,  and  told  me  that  she  was 
beginning  to  love  her  just  as  I  said  she  would.     It  will  be  very 

nice  going  there ;  only  if  papa  could  be  there  too "  and 

she  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  We  can't  have  all  we  wish,"  said  Bertha. 

It  was  a  truism ;  yet  Rachel's  simple  humility  took  it  as  it 
was  intended,  and  she  replied,  "  No,  I  ought  to  remember 
that ;  I  ought  to  be  thankful.     And  the  Hall  will  be  very 

pleasant,  and "  she  stopped,  for  tears  would  come  in  spite 

of  her  eiforts. 

"  Doesn't  papa  say  anything  else  in  his  note  ?"  iucjuircd 
Bertha,  wishing  to  distract  her  thoughts. 

"  Yes,  one  thing — I  forgot."  Rachel  read  it  through  again. 
"  He  has  left  his  pocket-book  behind  him  ;  he  wants  me  to 
look  in  it,  and  send  him  a  receipted  bill  that  is  in  it.  He  says 
if  I  am  in  any  doubt,  you  will  tell  which  it  is.  It  is  a  school 
bill,  which  he  paid  in  Cleve  the  other  day." 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  find  the  pocket-book  at  once,"  said 
Bertha,  looking  at  her  watch.  "  I  have  just  ten  minutes  to 
spare.     Then  we  can  settle  which  is  the  bill." 

"  I  saw  it  yesterday,  I  remember,"  said  Rachel,  searching 
about  the  room.  "  I  thought  why  he  had  left  it.  Oh  !  here 
it  is."     She  gave  it  to  Bertha. 

"You  had  better  open  it,"  said  Bertha,  returning  it. 

"  There  are  such  loads  of  papers  \"  Rachel  took  them  out, 
one  after  the  other.     "This — no,  it  is  a  note;  and  this  is  a 


30-i  CLEVE    HALL. 

list  of  school  children;  and  these  are  letters. — 1  dou't  thiuh 
the  bill  is  here." 

"  rerh:i])s  th.it  may  be  it,"  said  ]k>rthn,  pointing  to  a  folded 
paper  which  had  a  name  written  on  the  back. 

"I  don't  know;  it  may  be."  llachcl  opened  and  looked 
at  it.  "  I  d(  n't  think — it  isn't  a  receipt — what  does  it  mean  ?" 
She  put  the  paper  into  Bertha's  hands. 

Bertha  read : — 

''  Three  months  after  the  death  of  my  ftither,  T  promise  to 
pay  John  Vivian,  Esq.,  or  order,  the  sum  of  five  thousand 
pounds.     Value  received. 

Edward  Bruce  Vivian." 

"  Dear  Miss  Campbell,  aren't  you  well  ?"  Bertha's  colorless 
cheek,  her  fixed  gaze,  might  well  warrant  the  question. 

She  started.  "What  did  you  say  ?  Yes,  I  am  very  well, 
thank  you.  It  is  not  the  bill,  I  think.  Hadn't  you  better 
ask  the  servants  if  they  have  seen  it  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  had."  llachcl  was  frightened  by  Bertha's 
)nanncr.  8he  hardly  knew  what  she  was  to  ask  the  servants ; 
but  she  ran  away,  glad  to  be  out  of  the  room. 

]>crtha  was  alone — the  strange  paper  in  her  hand  ;  but  she 
could  scarcely  read  it  again — the  letters  swam  before  her  eyes. 
Yet  her  thoughts,  her  powers  of  reasoning  were  singularly 
clear.  It  must  mean,  it  could  not  mean  anything  but  that 
Edward  Vivian  had  deceived  them ;  that  he  had  really  been 
involved  to  an  extent  five  times  as  great  as  he  had  ever 
acknowledged ;  that  he  had  extricated  himself  by  means  cal- 
culated to  exasperate  any  father,  most  especially  a  man  with 
General  Vivian's  jealous  sense  of  justice,  his  keen  family 
pride  and  personal  dignity,  reckoning  upon  that  as  already  his 
own,  to  which  his  only  claim  lay  in  his  father's  will.  She 
recalled  Mr.  Lester's  manner  during  his  last  conversation,  and 
fancied  now  that  his  tone  of  despondency  was  greater  than  she 
liad  ever  known  it.  Perhaps  he  had  only  lately,  in  his  inter- 
view with  General  Vivian,  been  made  aware  of  the  extent  of 
Edward's  offence;  perhaps  he  had  not  liked  to  give  her  his 
true  reason  for  going  to  London,  and  had  seized  upon  Goff 's 
interference  with  the  letters  as  an  excuse ;  perhaps,  when  he 
said  that  the  hour  for  the  decisive  step  had  arrived,  it  was 
from  the  conviction  that  Edward  had  sinned  beyond  the  liope 
of  pardon^  except  by  a  final  despairing  appeal  to  mercy. 


CLEVE    HALL.  305 

Bertha's  fears  gave  strength,  to  her  convictions  y  yet  even 
in  this  there  was  much  to  perplex  her.  A  paper  so  important 
left  to  chance,  placed  in  a  pocket-book,  with  trilling  memo- 
randa, and,  as  it  seemed,  forgotten, — very  unlike  that  was  to 
Mr.  Lester,  so  careful  and  particular  as  he  was  in  all  matters 
of  business.  And  how  did  it  come  into  his  possession  ?  How 
lung  had  he  kept  it  from  her  ?  These  were  questions  not  to 
be  solved.  She  heard  llachel  returning,  and  her  impulse  waa 
to  restore  the  paper  to  its  place ;  but  a  second  thoixght  made 
her  hesitate.  It  might  be  unsafe.  Mr.  Lester  might  have 
forgotten  it.  It  seemed  better  to  take  care  of  it,  and  then  tell 
him  what  she  had  done.  Happily,  Bertha's  conscience  was  so 
free  from  any  double  motive,  that  she  had  no  cause  to  mistrust 
her  own  intentions,  and  safe  in  the  certainty  of  Mr.  Lester's 
kind  interpretation  of  her  actions,  she  took  possession  of  the 
mysterious  document ;  whilst  llachel  came  back  with  a  forlorn 
face,  having  heard  no  tidings  of  the  receipted  bill. 

Bertha  was  too  anxious  to  be  willing  to  wait  till  further 
search  had  been  made,  and  even  in  the  excitement  of  her  feel- 
ings and  the  perplexity  of  her  thoughts,  was  conscious  that 
the  ten  minutes  she  had  given  herself  were  expired ;  and  lla- 
chel, knowing  her  strict  punctuality,  would  not  ask  her  to  stay 
a  moment  beyond  the  appointed  time,  but  insisted  upon  look- 
ing through  the  pocket-book  papers  again  herself,  and  pi'omised 
to  bring  the  bill  to  the  Lodge  to  be  inspected  if  it  were  found. 
Just  at  the  last  minute,  Bertha  thought  whether  it  would  be 
wise  to  tell  Rachel  that  she  had  taken  the  paper ;  but  she  felt 
a  little  shy  of  confessing  what  might  appear  a  liberty,  and  was 
afraid  of  exciting  remark.  She  fancied,  besides,  that  llachel 
was  not  likely  to  miss  it,  as  she  had  scarcely  looked  at  it,  and 
certainly  did  not  understand  what  it  meant. 

Bertha,  therefore,  went  home  to  teach  the  children,  give 
directions  to  the  servants,  wait  upon  her  mother,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  all,  to  ponder  upon  the  painful  light  which  had  thus 
suddenly  been  cast  upon  the  family  affairs,  llachel  remained 
in  the  study,  and  went  through  the  papers  carefully  again  ; 
this  time,  perhaps  because  she  was  not  flurried  by  Bcrtlia's 
occasional  glances  at  the  timepiece,  she  found  the  bill  withunt 
any  difficulty :  aud  then,  having  a  vague  recollection  that  she 
had  missed  something  which  ought  to  be  thei'e,  took  another 
survey  in  search  of  the  old  dirty-looking  paper  which  she  had 
put  into  Bertha's  hands,  aud  which  at  the  time  she  remem- 
bered to  have  thought  very  unlike  all  the  rest. 


50G  CLEVE   HALL. 

i\Iost  provokiniT  it  was,  just  as  slic  was  going  to  sit  down  to 
road,  to  bo  hindorod  in  tliis  way;  but  now  the  old  paper  was 
gone.  Twice  slie  wont  through  the  letters  and  notes  as  th(!y 
wore  folded  in  the  pocket-book;  thou  she  unfolded  and  exa- 
miued  them,  looked  under  the  table,  under  the  chairs,  under 
books  and  sofa  cushions,  iu  every  place  whore  such  a  paper 
was  most  unlikely  to  be  found,  and  at  last  went  again  to  tho 
kitchen  to  conflde  her  troubles  to  Anne. 

And  Anne  was  standing  in  the  back  yard,  and  a  door  which 
led  from  it  into  the  Rectory  lane  was  open,  and  near  this  door 
was  (jrofT,  haunting  the  premises  still,  trying  to  make  friends 
with  Anne  at  home,  as  he  had  not  met  her  the  day  before  in 
the  village.  Rachel  came  out,  full  of  her  annoyance,  with  an 
idea  that  by  means  of  a  sweeping-brush  Anne  would  be  able 
to  penetrate  into  the  secret  recesses  of  any  hiding-place  in 
which  the  tiresome  paper  should  have  secreted  its(!lf.  And 
she  gave  a  full  description  of  it  to  the  best  of  her  ability ;  said 
that  it  was  old  and  discolored,  and  was  written  in  a  scrawly 
hand,  with  a  great  name  signed  at  the  bottom  which  she 
thought  was  Edward  Vivian ;  and  that  she  remembered  what 
it  was  like  especially,  because  Miss  Campbell  turned  so  pale 
just  when  the  paper  was  given  her  that  she  fancied  it  must  be 
something  written  on  it  which  frightened  her.  Of  course  it 
was  not  that,  because  it  was  only  an  old  kind  of  bill,  and  there 
was  nothing  really  the  matter  with  Miss  Campbell.  To  all 
which  details  Aune  gave  very  little  heed,  though  promising  to 
use  her  best  endeavors  to  assist  Rachel's  wishes,  and  to  pick 
up  every  piece  of  paper  she  might  see  on  the  ground  iu  the 
hope  of  discovering  the  truant. 

Anne  did  not  heed,  but  Goff  did ;  and  when  Anne,  at  Ra- 
chel's request,  went  back  with  her  to  the  study,  Goff,  cool, 
reckless,  desperate  in  danger  as  in  the  carrying  out  of  schemes 
of  guilt,  hurried  to  the  Grange  to  communicate  to  Captain  Vi- 
vian what  he  had  heard,  and  discuss  the  plans  which  it  might 
be  necessary  to  adopt  in  the  probability  that  the  missing  paper 
was  the  evidence  of  their  guilt  aud  the  cause  of  Mr.  Lester's 
sudden  departure. 


CLEVE    HALL.  807 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


"VyO  news  from  Mr.  Lester  tlie  following  moruiuiz'.  Eertha 
±\  liad  looked  forward  to  the  post  with  intense  anxiety;  and 
when  the  blank  "  no  letters  to-day"  was  heard  from  Louisa,  as 
the  pjstman  passed  the  gate,  her  heart  sickened  with  disap- 
pointment. She  had  waited,  hoping  to  hear  of  his  return, 
and  intending  to  delay  any  inquiry  as  to  the  paper  in  her  pos- 
session until  she  could  see  him.  Since  the  discovery  of  Gofl's 
interference  she  had  a  superstitious  dread  of  trusting  anything 
which  might  be  of  consequence  to  the  post ;  and  the  more  she 
considered  the  subject  in  calm  moments,  examining  carefully 
the  signature,  and  going  over  in  her  own  mind  all  that  she  had 
ever  heard  as  connected  with  Edward  Vivian's  affairs,  the  more 
her  first  feelings  were  altered,  whilst  a  strong  conviction  forced 
itself  upon  her  that  the  document  of  which  in  so  singular  a 
manner  she  had  become  possessed  was  false.  The  writing 
unquestionably  strikingly  resembled  Mr.  Vivian's ;  but  it  was 
stiff  and  careful ;  not  such  as  his  would  have  been  under  any 
pressure  of  anxiety.  There  were  slight  differences  in  the  letters 
also,  but  these  could  not  be  so  much  depended  upon,  because 
years  tend  very  much  to  alter  handwriting,  and  she  could  not 
well  recollect  what  her  brother-in-law's  had  been  so  long  ago. 
Bat  that  which  most  weighed  with  Bertha  was  the  full  belief, 
impressed  upon  her  mind  by  family  troubles,  that  his  debts 
bad  never  amounted  to  more  than  one-fifth  of  the  sum  named 
in  the  paper.  Mr.  Lester  doubtless  must,  like  herself,  have 
had  suspicions  upon  the  subject,  and  the  paper  must  be  con- 
nected, she  felt  sure,  with  his  London  journey;  perhaps  he 
did  not  say  so  for  fear  of  exciting  false  hopes ;  perhaps — but 
that  was  all  a  mystery,  not  to  be  dwelt  upon  if  slie  wished  to 
keep  her  mind  quiet;  only  Bertha  felt  that  whether  her  con- 
jectures were  true  or  false,  the  discovery  of  the  paper  threw 
light  upon  General  Vivian's  feelings,  and  gave  him  a  claim  to 
sympathy  fully  as  much  as  to  censure. 

Nothing  of  this  anxiety  was  shown  outwardly.  The  quiet- 
ness of  Bertha's  ordinary  manner  was  an  assistance  to  her 
in  keeping  up  the  necessary  self-restraint.  She  was  so  grave 
usually,  that  no  one  noticed  a  shade  more  or  loss,  except  it 
might  be  Louisa,  and  even  she  was  often  baffled  by  her  aunt's 
composure.     Yet  it  was  a  serious  effort  during  the  day  to  keep 


303  CLEVE    HALL. 

her  w:mdcrin,!?  thoughts  in  onlcr,  and  go  throim'h  the  routine 
of  lessons;  and  the  pre-occupation  of  her  mind,  added  to  a 
natural  want  of  ubscrvation  and  (juick  penetration  into  charac- 
ter, prevented  her  from  watching  Clement,  or  discovering  in 
him  anything  which  might  have  led  her  to  think  that  hi3 
heart  was  ill  at  ease. 

That  first  deception  had  led  him  on  niucli  further  than 
he  intended.  When  Captain  Vivian  met  him  the  day  suc- 
ceeding his  visit,  and  proposed  to  him  to  repeat  it,  asking, 
as  a  favor,  that,  besides  giving  him  help  for  amusement,  he 
would  assist  him  in  a  case  which  was  a  question  of  business, 
Clement  had  nothing  to  fall  back  upon  to  support  his  weak 
will,  and,  of  course,  yielded;  and  a  second  visit  involved  a 
third,  still  apparently  innocent,  but  making  him,  after  the 
excitement  was  over,  very  uneasy,  and  enabling  Captain  Vivian 
to  discover  in  the  course  of  conversation  all  he  rcciulred  to 
know  as  to  Mr.  Lester's  movements,  where  lie  was  likely  to  be 
in  London,  and  the  probability  of  his  return ;  Clement  telling 
everything  with  perfect  simplicity,  and  never  for  one  moment 
suspecting  a  meaning  in  this  apparent  interest. 

And  he  flattered  hiuiself,  too,  that  he  was  gaining  some- 
thing by  the  intercourse.  Captain  Vivian  talked  to  him  of 
the  sea  and  his  fancy  for  it,  and  gave  him  some  useful  advice 
not  unmixed  with  flattery,  promising,  any  day  that  he  could 
manage  it,  to  take  him  for  a  short  sail,  merely  that  he  might 
have  a  few  practical  lessons,  wdiich  were  better,  he  said,  than 
any  talking.  If  it  had  only  not  been  against  Clement's  con- 
science, he  wovild  quite  have  enjoyed  going  to  the  Grange, 
especially  as  he  found  that  by  some  means  he  was  free  from 
Ronald's  warning  voice.  Both  days  he  had  been  there  lio- 
nald  had  been  absent,  sent  by  his  father  on  some  business  to 
Cleve,  or  over  the  hills ;  and  Captain  Vivian  had  cautioned 
Clement  playfully  against  mentioning  his  visit,  saying,  that 
when  they  had  made  out  their  puzzling  questions,  he  meant 
to  surprise  him  with  his  cleverness,  for  llonald  never  fancied 
he  had  a  head  for  reckoning. 

There  had  been  a  proposal  that  they  should  meet  again  on 
this  day,  still  with  the  excuse  of  what  Captain  Vivian  called 
business ;  and  Clement  had  given  an  evasive  answer,  which 
left  it  at  his  option  to  go  or  not,  as  he  might  choose.  So  his 
conscience  was  tolerably  easy  for  the  present,  though  the  past 
weighed  upon  him  most  uncomfortably. 

it  was  not  likely  that  Bertha  should  suspect  any  of  this 


CLEVE    HALL.  309 

evil.  Clement  had  kept  regularly  to  hours,  and  walked  once 
with  his  sisters,  and  was  attentive  to  his  studies.  This  after- 
noon, also,  after  some  demur,  he  agreed  to  go  with  them  ovtn- 
the  hills  to  Greystone  Gorge,  to  see  Barney  Wood;  and 
although  Bertha  was  not  at  all  fond  of  being  left  in  any  way 
in  charge  of  Clement,  feeling  that  her  control  was  not  suffi- 
cient for  him,  she  was  satisfied  that  he  seemed  more  disposed 
than  usual  to  be  obedient.  Perhaps  it  was  the  consciousness 
of  his  unacknowledged  fault  which  made  him  particularly 
grave  and  quiet. 

It  was  a  long  walk,  and  the  days  were  now  so  short  that  it 
was  necessary  to  leave  home  early.  Without  Cle^uent,  indeed, 
Bertha  might  have  hesitated  about  undertaking  the  expedition  ; 
for  it  was  unpleasant  to  return  over  the  hills  alone,  or  only 
with  the  children,  when  it  was  growing  dark,  and  Barney 
Wood's  cottage  had  not  the  best  possible  reputation.  His 
mother,  who  was  dead,  had  been  Golf's  daughter;  and  report 
said,  that  the  crafty  smuggler  made  use  of  his  son-in-law's 
house  as  a  resort  for  himself  and  his  comrades,  in  case  of 
necessity.  It  was  certainly  very  much  out  of  the  way  of 
inspection,  although  within  an  easy  distance  of  Dark  Head 
Point,  and  not  very  far  from  the  Grange, — all  advantages  to 
persons  engaged  in  the  contraband  traffic  carried  on  to  such 
an  extent  upon  that  part  of  the  coast.  Dark  Head  Point  was 
well  known  to  be  the  general  rendezvous  of  the  smugglers. 
It  was  the  highest  headland  in  the  neighborhood,  and  from  it 
they  could  keep  a  strict  watch  over  the  country  for  miles ; 
and,  though  called  inaccessible  from  the  shore,  it  was  said 
that  the  practised  foot  of  the  smuggler  could  find  a  footing 
upon  narrow  ledges,  which  scarcely  a  goat  could  venture  lo 
tread;  and  that  the  tubs,  when  landed,  were  often  hidden  in 
recesses  of  the  cliffs,  which  the  preventive  men,  with  all  their 
hardihood,  could  not  reach.  But  all  this  was  but  hearsay. 
Sniugglers  have  a  code  of  honor  peculiarly  their  own,  and  no 
one  of  the  Encombe  band  had  ever  yet  been  known  to  betray 
the  secrets  of  his  comrades ;  whilst  the  villagers  would  have 
believed  it  an  act  of  the  grossest  treachery  to  reveal  aught, 
cither  by  word  or  look,  concerning  the  traffic  in  whioli  so 
many  of  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  them  were  deeply 
engaged. 

It  was  a  difficult  task  iutmsted  to  IMr.  Lester,  that  of  guid- 
ing these  lawless  people  :  to  himself  they  were  unifurinly  civil, 
and,  for  t>ie  mast  part,  there  was  little  more  to  fmd  fault  with 


310  CLEVE   HALL. 

ninnim'st  tlicm  than  amoiif^-st  the  generality  of  their  class 
Druiikeiincs.s  was  the  prevailing  vice,  but  there  were  few  petty 
thefts;  the  cliiklreii  were  sent  regularly  to  school;  the  wives 
worked  diligently  at  home;  the  attendance  at  church  on  the 
Sunday  was  as  regular  as  it  commonly  is  in  a  seafaring  place ; 
on  the  week-days,  few  men  would  have  been  found,  in  any 
village  of  the  size,  able  to  leave  their  daily  work.  Only  now 
and  then,  some  affray  with  the  preventive  men  roused  the 
fiercer  passions  of  the  people,  and  revealed  the  depth  of  the 
mischief  which,  at  other  times,  was  doing  its  work  secretly, 
but  surely.  And  it  was  not  easy  to  find  occasions  for  warning, 
where  the  offence  was  so  carefully  concealed.  The  men  called 
themselves  fishermen  ;  their  boats  were  ostensibly  fisb\ng-boats, 
and,  indeed,  often  used  for  that  purpose ;  they  were  connected, 
too,  with  other  smuggling  bands  along  the  coast,  and  it  was 
customary  to  shift  the  ofi'ence  from  one  to  the  other,  till  it 
become  almost  impossible  to  attach  it  to  any  individual.  But, 
worse  than  all,  they  were  unquestionably  supported  and  en- 
couraged by  powerful  example;  and,  whilst  Captain  Vivian 
remained  in  the  village,  Mr.  Lester  felt  bitterly  that  all  hope 
of  really  improving  his  people,  or  teaching  them  the  actual 
culpability  of  their  conduct,  was  vain.  Yet  with  him  there 
was  even  greater  difficulty  in  fixing  the  offence  than  with  the 
lower  classes.  The  vessel  kept  off  the  coast,  and  known  to 
belong  to  him,  and  to  be  engaged  in  smuggling  expeditions, 
was  owned  nominally  by  another  person,  and  was  ostensibly  a 
trading  vessel,  which  went  backwards  and  forwards  for  appa- 
rently innocent  purposes  of  business.  It  had  even  been 
searched,  but  nothing  had  been  found.  Yet  there  was  no 
more  real  doubt  of  its  being  used  for  smuggling  purposes, 
than  that  the  man  chiefly  connected  with  it  was  a  lawless  vil- 
lain ;  all  that  was  needed  was  proof,  and  proof  was  never  at 
hand. 

It  seemed  hard  to  visit  the  sins  of  the  guilty  i;pon  the  inno- 
cent; harder  still,  when  it  was  known  that  temptation  and 
threats  were  used  in  the  village  to  no  slight  extent;  and  that 
those  who  would  not  join  the  smugglers  from  interest,  wci-e 
compelled  to  do  so  from  fear.  This  had  been  the  case,  in 
some  degree,  with  j\I»rk  Wood,  the  father  of  little  Barney. 
lie  had  been  a  quiet,  respectable  man,  till  he  married  Goft's 
daughter.  Even  then  he  seemed  anxious  to  keep  himself  aloof 
from  the  evil  practices  prevalent  around  him ;  but  once  nearly 
tounected  with  a  man  of  bad  principle,  and  he  could  not  again 


CLEVE   HALL.  311 

set  himself  free.  Mr.  Lester  had  been  a  friend  to  INIark  and 
to  his  wife;  he  had  attended  her  through  a  long  illness,  and 
been  with  her  at  the  moment  of  death ;  and  at  that  time  it 
seemed  that  the  unhappy  husband's  heart  was  open  to  good 
impressions,  and  Mr.  Lester,  anxious  to  follow  them  up,  had 
taken  especial  notice  of  his  sickly  boy,  left  without  a  mother's 
care.  With  the  assistance  of  Kachel  and  Bertha  Campbell, 
he  had  provided  Barney  with  comforts,  and  even  luxuries,  in 
the  wish  to  keep  up  his  influence  with  the  father  by  the  means 
of  his  child.  But  the  case  was  not  as  hopeful  now  as  it  had 
been.  GrofF  was  more  frequently  at  the  cottage ;  his  son-in- 
law  was  with  him  oftener  in  other  places.  It  had  even  been 
reported  that  Mark  Wood  was  to  be  seen,  late  at  night,  watch- 
ing on  Dark  Head  Point;  but  this  was  only  report,  and  Mi*. 
Lester  could  not  leave  the  sick  boy  to  suffer  because  his  father 
was  yielding  to  evil  example.  He  still  allowed  Bertha  and 
llachel  to  visit  him,  and  aided  them  in  any  little  plans  for  the 
child's  comfort,  often  making  an  excuse  to  visit  the  boy  him- 
self, with  the  desire  of  meeting  the  father,  and  gaining  an 
insight  into  his  habits.  But,  once  a  smuggler,  and  Mark 
Wood's  sense  of  honor  and  truth  was  as  perverted  as  that  of 
his  companions.  He  would  treat  Mr.  Lester  with  civility, 
listen  to  his  advice,  and  show  himself  grateful  for  his  kind- 
ness ;  but  there  was  no  more  confidence  between  them.  Mark 
had  given  himself  to  a  service  which  would  admit  of  no  com- 
promise ;  and  if  a  lie  could  serve  the  purpose  of  concealment, 
he  would  not  scruple  to  use  it  for  smuggling  purposes,  though 
he  would  have  scorned  to  avail  himself  of  it  for  any  other. 

The  visits  to  Barney  Wood  were  very  satisfactory  to  Bertha, 
for  they  were  almost  her  only  opportunities  of  seeing  Ronald 
alone.  His  care  of  the  child  was  watchful  and  unceasing.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  little  fellow  was  a  safety-valve  for  the  softer 
feelings  which  could  find  no  other  vent.  For  Ronald  Vivian 
could  not  live  without  some  one  to  love.  The  strong  feelings 
which  at  times  carried  him  beyond  his  own  control  in  anger, 
or  exhausted  themselves  in  the  better  impulses  of  fiery  resolve 
and  strong  determination,  took  also,  occasionally,  other  forms 
of  intense  longings  for  affection,  eager  and  passionate  desires 
to  find  some  work  which  should  draw  him  away  from  himself, 
and  give  him  personal  love  in  return  for  devoted  self-denial ; 
and  then  he  seized  upon  the  first  object  which  presented  itself, 
and  gave  himself  up  to  it  unremittingly,  and  with  the  same 
spirit  of  intense   reverence  with  which  lu;   had  watched  his 


312  CLEVE    UALL. 

mother,  (larinc  hor  liiijicrinp;  illness,  whilst  recclvinp;  the  im- 
pressions that  had  so  often  been  his  safeguard  during  his  most 
jierilous  lite. 

We  cannot  forget  purity  when  once  we  have  been  brought 
in  contact  with  it.  The  memory  of  evil  may  die  when  the 
soul  has  long  dwelt  in  the  presence  of  goodness,  but  the  vision 
of  hdlinoss  is  immortal,  even  as  He  from  whom  it  proceeds, 
lionald  Vivian  had  learnt  from  his  mother  what  a  woman  can 
be  in  meekness,  self-devotion,  endurance,  and  faith;  and  not 
all  those  terrible  scenes  into  which  he  had  since  been  plunged, 
had  sufficed  to  eradicate  the  impression.  Still  the  best  resolu- 
tions of  the  present,  and  the  strongest  wishes  for  the  future, 
were  formed  from  the  images  of  the  past.  In  IJertha  Camp- 
bell, and  Ella,  and  Rachel,  he  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  his 
mother's  virtues  reflected ;  and  when  he  tended  the  sick  boy 
on  his  suffering  bed,  he  acted  over  again  in  imagination  the 
scenes  so  deeply  imprinted  on  his  memory  when  his  mother 
had  in  like  manner  watched  over  him. 

It  was  a  marvellous  power  which  could  thus  keep  before 
him  a  standard  of  goodness  so  infinitely  beyond  anything 
actually  present  to  his  eyes.  Bertha  was  wanting  in  his 
mother's  grace  and  tact ;  and  Ella,  he  could  sometimes  discover, 
was  wayward ;  and  Rachel  was  too  young  and  seen  too  seldom 
to  exercise  any  very  direct  influence;  but  to  Ronald  they  were 
beings  of  a  superior  order.  They  had  the  refinement  and 
delicacy — the  soft  voices  and  the  gentle  consideration  of 
manner — with  which  all  his  better  feelings  were  associated ; 
and  when  disgusted  by  the  coarseness  and  freedom  of  the 
rough  men  with  whom  he  was  so  often  brought  in  contact,  his 
thoughts  reverted  to  them  with  a  feeling  almost  superstitious 
in  its  reverence, — as  if  they,  and  such  as  they,  alone  prevented 
this  earth  from  sinking  to  the  horrors  of  Pandemonium. 

And  thus  it  was,  from  the  longing  to  escape  from  the 
scenes  he  loathed  into  a  purer  atmosphere,  that  the  care  of 
little  Barney  had  become  Ronald's  solace,  as  ofi"ering  a  vent 
for  his  pent-up  yearnings, — a  duty  which  would  associate  him 
with  those  who  were  as  his  better  angels,  pointing  him  the 
way  to  Heaven.  When  he  found  that  Bertha  and  Rachel 
Lester  were  interested  in  the  sick  child,  his  work  became 
ennobled :  when  he  could  act  with  them,  or  for  them,  in  any 
plan  which  they  might  have  for  Barney's  gratification,  it  was 
as  though  he  had  been  raised  above  his  natural  sphere,  and 
higher,  purer  pleasures  and  hopes  were  being  placed  before 


CLEVE   HALL.  313 

him;  and  in  this  spirit  he  had  begun,  and  for  a  time  carried 
on,  his  visits  to  the  child.  But  a  still  deeper  blessing,  thoutjh 
yet  an  earthly  one,  was  in  time  granted  him.  Love  he  must, 
in  some  form,  either  in  remembrance,  or  reality,  or  hope. 
Whilst  he  lived  alone  with  his  coarse-minded  fether  he  had 
loved  the  memory  of  his  mother,  and  it  was  long  before  he 
could  persuade  himself  that  any  other  affection  could  be  vouch- 
safed him.  But  the  possibility  dawned  upon  him  as  a  star 
rising  upon  the  darkness  of  night,  whilst  he  watched  by  the 
sick  bed  of  Barney  Wood.  His  father  might  be  harsh  and 
repelling;  Bertha  might  be  too  far  above  him  for  every- day 
sympathy;  Ella  and  Kachel  had  interests  quite  removed  from 
his ;  but  there  was  one  face  which  always  brightened  when  he 
drew  near;  one  little  voice  which  never  failed  to  entreat  iu 
longing  accents  for  his  return ;  one  eye  which  had  learnt  to 
know  when  he  was  sorrowful,  to  look  lovingly  and  anxiously 
for  his  smile ;  and  the  pent-up  fountain  of  Ronald's  heart  was 
touched  by  the  loving  hand  of  a  child's  sympathy,  and  the 
affection  which  had  hitherto  exhausted  itself  in  regret,  or  been 
dried  up  by  the  scorching  furnace  of  sin,  gushed  forth  pure 
and  free  to  revive  the  drooping  spirit  of  the  boy,  and  be  in 
turn  refreshed  and  strengthened  itself. 

It  was  now  very  nearly  Christmas,  and  Greystone  Gorge, 
inviting  though  it  might  seem  in  its  wild  loneliness  beneath 
the  beauty  of  a  summer  sky,  looked  mournfully  dreary  under 
the  dark  atmosphere  of  a  December  aftei-noon.  There  was 
not  even  the  excitement  of  frost  and  snow ;  the  sky  was  a 
colrl,  hard  gray,  and  though  the  sun  tried  to  break  through  it 
at  intervals,  it  had  but  little  power;  the  thin  coating  of  turf 
had  become  brown ;  the  fern  leaves  were  dry  and  withered ; 
the  straggling  bushes  seemed  only  fit  to  burn ;  all  was  faded, 
and  the  cottage  itself  had  a  mournful,  neglected  appearance. 
Barney  had  long  ceased  to  enjoy  being  laid  upon  a  mattrass 
out  of  doors,  though  he  was  generally  drawn  every  day  over 
the  few  paces  of  level  ground  in  his  little  carriage.  Bertha 
and  Rachel  had  provided  him  with  a  thick  wrapping-sh;iwl, 
and  Ronald  had  brought  him  a  sailor's  coat  to  put  over  him, 
so  that  he  could  be  kept  tolerably  warm ;  but  since  the  winter 
had  set  in  he  had  taken  up  a  position  on  a  small  couch  by  the 
wide  open  hearth,  and  when  he  did  go  out,  could  bear  the 
fiitigue  only  for  a  few  minutes.  He  was  left  very  much  to 
himself.  An  old  woman  who  lived  in  a  cottage  lower  down 
tlie  Gorge  was  hired  to  take  daily  care  of  Mark's  household, 
14 


314  CLIJVE    HALL. 

hut  it  \v;is  very  little  attention  Tvliich  the  sufTorinii;  cliilcl 
obtained  from  her.  She  dressed  him  rouuhly,  then  laid  him 
on  his  couch,  and  proceeded  to  her  honseh(»ld  work;  scolding 
TJarney  if  he  interrupted  her,  and  now  and  then  reproaching 
him  with  having  so  many  friends  that  he  wanted  for  nothing. 

A  grown-up  person  understands  such  a  trial,  and  sutlers 
from  it ;  a  child  happily  scarcely  does,  and  ]Jarney  was  quite 
contented  when  he  was  left  with  his  picture  book,  and  his 
scissors  and  paper,  whether  Mother  Brewer,  as  the  old  Avoraan 
was  called,  attended  to  him  or  not.  He  would  occupy  himself 
for  hours  together  with  them,  whilst  his  brothers  and  sisters 
were  at  school ;  and  when  they  returned,  though  it  was  fretting 
to  be  disturbed,  there  was  excitement  and  interest  in  hearing 
all  they  had  done;  and  they  were  not  at  all  rough  with  him, 
and  his  father  was  especially  tender ;  altogether  Barney  was 
not  an  unhappy  child,  and  his  little  wizen  face,  though  thin 
and  sharp  from  illness,  could  brighten  up  with  a  smile  which 
often  became  a  hearty  laugh,  when  Bonald  told  droll  stories  or 
the  children  anuised  him  with  their  games. 

He  was  looking  out  for  Ronald  this  afternoon,  fancying  it 
a  long  time  since  he  had  seen  him ;  and  he  had  persuaded  the 
old  woman  to  move  his  couch  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
hearth,  and  to  leave  the  door  partly  open,  that  he  might  hear 
the  first  sound  of  footsteps.  So  he  sat  half  upright,  cutting 
pieces  of  paper  into  strange  figures  which  he  called  men  and 
women,  and  making  a  game  of  them  for  his  own  amusement, 
all  the  time  fully  on  the  alert  for  what  might  be  approaching. 

"  Such  a  litter !  there's  no  end  to  the  work,"  grumbled 
Mother  ]5rewcr,  as  she  picked  up  the  shreds  of  paper  which, 
in  a  sudden  move,  Barney  had  scattered  upon  the  floor. 
"  Why  can't  you  keep  quiet,  child,  eh?" 

"  He's  not  coming  yet,"  was  ]3arney's  reply, — giving  vent 
to  his  own  thoughts,  without  noticing  the  angry  tones  to  which 
he  was  so  well  accustomed.  He  laid  down  his  scissors,  and 
listened  again. 

"  Well  !  and  what's  the  use  of  an  imp  like  you  fussing? 
He'll  come  if  he  can,  and  if  he  can't  he  can't.  I  won't  have 
you  lie  there  with  the  door  open  much  longer." 

Barney  strained  his  neck  to  try  and  look  round  the  door. 

The  old  woman  gave  him  a  tap  on  the  shoulder,  sufficient 
to  startle,  not  to  frighten  him.  "  Lie  quiet,  can't  you  ?  Don't 
you  know  the  doctor  says  you  miTst." 

" 'Tis  Captain  John,  and  father,  and  grandfather,  'tisn't 


CLEVE    HALL.  315 

Konalcl,"  said  Barney.  His  face  changed  its  expression ;  he 
would  have  cried  if  he  had  not  been  ashamed. 

"  What  sharp  eai's  the  child  has  !  1  don't  hear  any  one." 
The  old  woman  went  to  the  door.  "  Oh  !  yes,  there  they  be  ; 
we  must  move  you,  my  master ;"  and  she  drew  the  child'a 
couch  back  to  the  wall,  placing  him  in  a  position  where,  even 
if  the  door  were  open,  he  could  see  nothing.  "  No  crying ; 
don't  let's  have  any  fuss;  father  will  beat  you,  if  you  ciy." 
The  threat  was  disregarded,  for  Barney  had  never  experienced 
a  beating;  but  he  was  very  quiet,  and  self-controlled,  and 
shrank  up  into  a  corner  of  his  little  couch,  and  turned  his  face 
away,  as  though  he  longed  to  escape  notice. 

The  three  men  came  into  the  room  together;  Captain  Vi- 
vian first,  Goff  following  him  with  the  air  of  an  equal.  Mark 
Wood  lingered  behind ;  and  when  he  did  enter,  went  up  at 
once  to  his  child's  couch,  and  patted  his  head. 

"  We  don't  want  you,  mother,"  was  Goif's  uncivil  greeting 
to  the  old  woman,  who  instantly  left  the  cottage;  "  and  we 
don't  want  him  neither,  eh,  Mark  ?"  he  pointed  to  the  child. 

Mark  looked  at  his  boy  for  a  moment.  "  No  fear  for  him  ; 
here  Barney,  child,  cut  the  Captain  out  a  wolf;"  and  he  tossed 
him  a  scrap  of  paper.  "  'Tis  a  fuss  to  move  him ;  it  gives  him 
pain,  and  besides  we've  no  time  to  lose." 

"  No,  that's  for  certain ;  your  young  follow  will  be  upon  us 
before  long,  Captain  ;  so  now  to  work." 

They  withdrew  to  a  distant  corner,  and  carried  on  the  con- 
versation in  an  under  tone.  Goif  began  :  "  You're  in  for  it, 
Mark,  remember." 

Mark  gave  rather  a  sullen  assent. 

"And  in  for  a  good  fifty  pounds,"  said  Captain  Vivian, 
jocosely.  "  Why  Mark,  my  man,  you'll  be  off  to  America 
upon  it." 

Mark  replied  as  gravely  as  before  :  ''  I  should  like  to  un- 
derstand the  work,  though,  better,  Captain.  I  see  no  good 
in  a  man's  undertaking  a  job  till  he  see  where  it  will  lead 
him  to." 

"  Folly !"  interrupted  Goff.  "  Haven't  I  told  you  'twill 
lead  nowhere?  The  young  gentleman's  up  to  a  frolic,  and 
wc  are  going  to  help  him  to  it,  that's  all.  But  we'll  have  none 
of  this  nonsense.  Do  you  mean  to  keep  your  word,  that's  the 
question  ?" 

Mark  hesitated. 

"  It's  my  own  relation,  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  as  you  ma)" 


316  CLEVE    HALL. 

say,"  observed  Captain  Vivian,  more  gently.  ''  I'm  not  likely 
to  go  in  any  way  against  one  of  luy  own  kin.  lie  and  1  are 
the  best  friends  possible.     It's  only  a  boy's  lark." 

"  And  the  fifty  pounds  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  conti- 
nued Goff,  observing  Mark's  perplexed  countenance;  "that's 
for  the  other  work,  you  know.  LaTid  your  cargo  safe,  and  then 
come  and  hold  out  your  hand  for  the  money.  The  boy's  affair 
has  nothing  to  do  with  that." 

''  And  it's  not  against  the  young  gentleman's  will  ?" 

"  Not  a  whit,  not  a  whit,  man.  And  if  the  parson's  up  in 
arms,  why  we  know  how  to  laugh  at  him." 

The  allusion  was  an  unfortunate  one.  Mark  Wood  might 
neglect  Mr.  Lester's  advice,  but  he  respected  him  extremely. 
"  I've  no  fancy  to  go  against  the  parson,"  he  replied.  "  He's 
been  a  kind  friend  to  me  and  mine;  and  if  I've  sometimes 
gone  contrary  to  him,  moi"e  shame  to  me." 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  But  the  boy's  not  going  to  be  a 
parson  ;  so  where' s  the  use  of  keeping  him  tied  up  as  they 
do.  Besides,  Mark,  my  man," — and  Captain  Vivian,  resting 
his  hands  ixpom  his  two  knees,  bent  forward  and  fixed  upon 
Mark  a  gaze  of  stern  penetration  and  defiance — "  once  ours, 
always  ours.  Who  is  it  the  Preventives  would  give  their 
right  hand  to  catch  ?  and  who  may  we  give  up  to  them  in  a 
moment,  eh  ?" 

Mark's  countenance  changed.  The  threat  implied  would, 
he  knew,  be  executed  without  remorse  if  the  occasion  offered. 
Once  suspected  by  bis  comrades,  he  would  on  the  first  oppor- 
tunity be  left  to  the  vigilance  of  the  coast-guard,  even  if  no 
deeper  revenge  were  taken. 

"  It's  not  I  that  am  wishing  to  draw  back,  Captain,"  he 
said,  in  a  more  yielding  tone.  "  I've  gone  far  enough  with 
you,  as  you  know, — too  far,  it  may  be,"  be  added,  in  a  lower 
voice;  "but  no  matter  for  that.  Sink  or  swim  together  is  a 
needs  be,  when  men  have  done  what  we  have  in  compajiy. 
But  I've  no  will  to  drag  others  in,  specially  a  youngster  who 
is  only  just  beginning  to  know  his  right  hand  from  his  left." 

"  Trust  him  for  that !"  exclaimed  Goff,  bursting  into  a  loud 
laugh.  "  He's  as  cunning  a  bird  as  any  in  England.  But 
put  aside  all  that  rubbish,  Mark,  and  tell  us  plainly,  once  for 
all — will  or  nill  ?  that's  the  question.  Down  on  the  beach 
with  a  quick,  firm  oar,  to-night  at  half-past  seven,  or" — hia 
voice  sank  ominously — "wandering  like  a  skulking  wretch, 


CLEVE    UALL.  317 

afraid  to  meet  his  bold  comrades?  Come,  man,  I  tliouglil 
better  of  you." 

"  And  his  life  is  safe,  you  are  sure  ?"  said  Mark. 

"  Life  !  safe  !  Why  man,  you  are  enough  to  drive  a  saint 
frantic,  let  alone  Richard  Goff.  I  tell  you  it's  a  question  of 
fun.  He'll  be  taken  out  safe  and  brought  back  safe;  and 
then,  won't  v^e  turn  round  and  have  a  laugh  at  the  parson  ?" 

"  'Twill  be  the  third  night  I  shall  have  been  away  from 
him,"  said  Mark,  pointing  with  one  finger  to  his  child. 

"  Oh!  he  !  nonsense  !  the  old  woman  will  take  care  of  him, 
aud  thankful.     He's  not  in  your  way." 

"  And  we  are  to  be  away,  how  long?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  It's  according  to  what  time  you'll  want. 
Just  take  your  work,  man,  as  it's  given  you,  and  don't  trouble 
about  anything  else.  You're  not  in  command  yet ;  when  you 
are,  you'll  know  more  about  it." 

Captain  Vivian  rose  aud  went  to  the  door.  "  I  don't  see 
my  boy  yet,"  he  said ;  ''  but  he'll  surely  be  here  soon.  We 
must  have  no  more  trifling." 

''  There's  no  disobeying  you,  Captain,"  replied  Mark,  sur- 

<'To  be  sure  not,"  said  Golf,  in  a  cajoling  tone.  "  What 
would  you  be  without  the  Captain,  I  should  like  to  know  ?" 

"  Very  different  from  what  I  am,"  muttered  Mark  to  him- 
self; and  then  he  added,  more  loudly,  "  I  must  understand 
what's  to  be  done  clearly.     To-night,  at  half-past  seven  ?'' 

"  Ay,  down  on  the  beach,  in  the  West  Cove,  by  the  Point," 
replied  Goff". 

"  And  the  vessel  waiting  outside,"  added  Captain  Vivian. 

"  Then,  when  we  and  the  young  one  come  down,"  conti- 
nued Goff,  "  we  shall  put  him  on  looard ;  and  you  are  to  haul 
off  to  the  bark.  When  you  are  there,  your  business  will  be 
done  as  to  orders,  and  you'll  have  nothing  to  think  of  but  your 
own  old  concerns." 

"  And  he  is  to  go  with  us,  then,  across  seas  ?" 

''  Yes,  just  for  the  sail.     He'll  be  back  with  you." 

"And  we  to  show  him  all  our  sport?  That  seems  folly 
enough,"  said  3Iark.  "  Why,  he'll  turn  sharp  upon  us  when 
he  gets  back." 

"  Never  you  trouble  your  head  with  that  matter,"  said 
Goff.  "  We  are  not  going  to  let  him  see  an  inch  beyond  his 
nose  if  we  don't  choose;  and  oae  way  you  may  make  special 


318  CLEVE    HALL. 

use  of  him, — if  the  sharks  are  after  yon,  put  him  first,  and 
Bcc  if  jrood  (hicMi't  come  of  it." 

JMark  <raA-e  a  start  of  horror.  "  Put  him  first !  into  dan- 
ger?— why  Goff,  you  are  a  scoundreh" 

"Thanks  for  your  good  opinion,"  said  Goif,  carelessly; 
''  I'm  not  more  a  scoundrel  than  my  nei,nhbors,  only  I  speak 
out,  and  they  keep  in.  ]kit  I'm  not  saying  the  boy's  to  be 
put  in  danger, — only  put  first.  Let  the  sharks  know  who  he 
is,  and  there's  feeling  enough  for  the  old  General  to  keep  them 
from  doing  him  harm.  And  if  they  catch  him,  'tis  but  an 
hour  or  two's  rough  handling  for  him.  He's  not  such  a  ten- 
der chicken  for  that  to  hurt  him.  Come,  trust  me,  Mark," 
he  continued,  seeing  his  companion's  changing  and  undecided 
expression.  "  You've  never  got  into  mischief  yet  by  trusting 
me." 

"Pshaw!  what  signifies  urging?"  exclaimed  Captain  Vi- 
vian, impatiently.  "  If  he  won't  do  it,  there  are  a  dozen 
others  who  will.  And  we  shall  know  where  to  look  for  our 
friends  for  the  future." 

"  And  we  shall  have  the  boy  with  us,  at  all  hazards,"  con- 
tinued Goff.  "  We  are  not  going  to  be  balked  of  our  plans 
by  a  downhearted  fool,  who  hasn't  a  spark  of  fun  in  him." 

The  observation  seemed  to  strike  Mai-k  in  a  new  light. 
'■'■  You  are  bent  upon  it,  then  ?"  he  said. 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure.  Who  ever  knew  Richard  Goff  take  a 
plan  into  his  head,  and  give  it  up?"  And  Goff"  laughed 
loudly  and  harshly. 

Mark  considered. 

"  A  loss  of  fifty  pounds,"  muttered  Captain  Vivian. 

]\Iark  glanced  at  his  child,  who  was  sitting  up  on  his  couch, 
his  large  black  eyes  sparkling  with  eagerness  as  he  fixed  them 
upon  his  father.  Probably  he  feared  to  attract  notice  to  the 
boy,  for  the  look  was  but  momentary;  and  then  he  said,  more 
boldly,  "  Fifty  pounds  paid  down  ?" 

"  Sterling  gold,  if  you  will,"  said  Goff. 

"  Fifty  pounds,  which  will  go  a  pretty  long  way  towards 
paying  the  old  General  the  rent  of  the  cottage  and  the  land," 
said  Captain  Vivian. 

"  And  which  if  you  don't  have,  you  must  needs  go  forth 
to  wander  where  you  can,"  pursued  Goff. 

A  second  quick  glance  at  the  child  : — perhaps  imagination 
pictured  the  little  fellow's  grief  in  having  to  give  up  the  only 
lionic  he  had  ever  known, — perhaps  there  were  images  of  by- 


CLEVE   HALL.  319 

ffone  di\\H  and  past  happiuess  rising  up  bcfcTi'c  Mark  Wood. 
It  would  bo  a  terrible  trial  to  leave  the  cottage  iu  tlie  Gorge ; 
but  so  it  must  be,  uuless  the  rent  of  the  house  and  the  land 
could  be  paid  before  another  month  was  over.  His  faltering 
resolution  was  betraj^ed  by  the  question,  again  repeated, — 
"■  You  are  sure  the  boy's  life  is  safe  ?"  to  which  Goff  replied 
by  shaking  his  hand  violently,  and  exclaiming,  "  As  safe  as 
yours  or  mine,  man  !  and  what  would  you  want  more  ?"  He 
laughed  again,  so  did  Captain  Vivian.  ]Mark  Wood  only  re- 
plied sullenly, — "  Then  the  matter's  settled,  and  we'll  say  no 
more." 

He  took  up  his  hat,  intending  to  leave  the  cottage.  Goff 
followed  him  to  the  door,  looked  out,  and  dragged  him  back. 
"Hist!  I  say;  not  a  word  to  the  youngster;  he's  coming. 
Captain,  it's  time  for  us  to  be  off.  Where's  your  back  outlet, 
Mark  ?"  He  tried  a  little  door  near  Barney's  couch.  Mark 
went  up  slowly  and  opened  it. 

"  Not  a  word,  remember,"  said  Captain  Vivian,  in  a  low, 
hurried  voice, — he  slipped  half-a-crowu  into  Mark's  hand, — 
''  I  am  glad  we  caught  you  at  home ;  but  remember,  not  a 
word." 

They  passed  through  the  little  door,  whilst  Mark  sat  down 
on  a  chair  by  the  deal  table,  and,  resting  his  elbows  upon  it, 
buried  his  face  iu  his  hands. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


"  A  RE  they  gone,  father  ?"  Barney's  voice  broke  suddenly 
_/\_  upon  Mark  Wood's  meditations. 

"  Ay,  I  suppose  so.     What  do  you  want,  child  ?" 

"■  Grandfather  speaks  out  so,  and  Captain  John's  wicked ; 
I  wish  they  wouldn't  come  here." 

"  That's  a  bad  boy,  to  say  so.  We'll  have  Mother  Brewer 
back  ;"  and  Mark  stood  up. 

"Ronald's  coming;  I  don't  want  Mother  Brewer,"  said 
Barney. 

^-  Ronald  won't  come;  nobody  won't  come,  if  you  talk  like 
a  bad  b^y.     There,  go  to  your  cutting  and  clipping  again." 


320  CLEVE    HALL. 

Mark  tossod  hiiu  a  piece  of  paper  from  a  quantity  flhiuh  Ra 
chc'l  had  provided  fur  his  aiuuseiiient. 

Barney  scarcely  noticed  the  gift;  but  as  his  father  still 
stood  moodily  by  the  window,  he  continued,  "  31other  Brewer 
says  Captain  John  makes  folks  wicked." 

"  Idiot !  what  does  she  know  ?"  Mark  turned  angrily  upon 
his  little  boy ;  and  the  child,  frightened  at  the  expression  of 
liis  eyes,  began  to  cry.  The  father's  heart  softened.  "  There, 
leave  off;  don't  fuss,  Barney,  boy;  duu't  whimper;  take  to 
your  cutting,  and  we  won't  have  Mother  Brewer  back.  And 
here's  Ronald;  you'll  be  glad  to  see  Ronald."  He  placed  the 
child  more  comfortably  on  his  couch,  gave  an  uneasy  glance 
round  the  room,  wishing  to  be  certain  that  no  traces  of  his 
recent  visiters  were  left,  and  went  to  the  door  just  as  Ronald 
3ame  up. 

"  Good-day  to  you,  Mark;  how's  Baniey  V  Ronald's  open 
face,  and  manly,  good-humored  v6ice,  were  a  great  contrast  lo 
Mark's  clouded  brow,  and  sullen  tone  of  half  welcome. 

"■  The  boy's  nigh  the  same,  thank  you,  Master  Ronald. 
You'll  be  going  in,  I  suppose  ?"  and  Mark  moved  aside,  to  let 
Ronald  pass. 

"  There's  no  one  in,  is  tbere  ?"  asked  Ronald,  stopping. 
"  I  thought  I  saw  some  one  moving  about  in  the  back  yard." 

"  Mother  Brewer's  been  here,  but  she's  gone  home  for  a 
bit,"  was  the  evasive  answer. 

"  I  thought  Goff  might  have  been  here,  or  my  father;  they 
were  before  me  some  way  on  the  hills.  But  I  suppose  they 
turned  oflF  to  the  Point." 

"  I  suppose  so.  Will  you  please  to  walk  in?  The  child 
will  be  glad  enough  to  see  you."  Then  recollecting  himself, 
and  remembering  that  Barney  would  be  sure  to  mention  the 
visit  he  had  just  had,  he  added, — "  The  Captain  and  Guif 
were  here  for  a  bit;  but  they're  off  now;  I  don't  know 
where." 

Ronald  had  early  been  taught  the  watchfulness  engendered 
by  guilt  and  suspicion;  even  these  few  words  of  Mark's, 
showing  an  unwillingness  to  mention  Captain  Vivian's  visit, 
gave  him  the  clue  to  something  not  satisfactory.  He  would 
have  asked  some  questions,  but  Mark  was  evidently  unwilling 
to  stay  and  talk.  He  muttered  a  few  words  about  business 
and  waste  of  time,  and  again  begging  Ronald  to  go  in,  for 
Barney  would  be  mighty  glad  to  see  him,  he  walked  awiiy 
with  a  lounging,  idling  step. 


CLEVE    HALL.  321 

Ronald  went  up  to  Barney's  couch,  and  the  child  threw 
his  arms  round  him,  and  kissed  him,  but  without  speaking. 

"  That's  enough !  Why  Barney,  my  man,  I  shall  be 
stifled!"  Ronald  Uiughed,  and  tried  to  disengage  himself, 
but  the  child  still  clung  to  hira. 

"■  I  like  you  to  come.  I  don't  like  Captain  John ;  and 
IMother  Brewer  says  he's  wicked ;  but  father  won't  let  me  say 
it."  He  stopped  suddenly,  catching  the  expression  of  Ro- 
nald's face  : — "  Is  it  naughty  in  me  to  say  it?" 

"  Captain  John  is  my  father,  Barney,"  said  Ronald. 

"  He  ain't  a  bit  like  you  ;  and  father  is  like  me,"  continued 
Barney. 

<'  All  fathers  and  sons  aren't  alike,  Barney;  but  what  made 
you  think  of  Captain  John  ?" 

"  'Cause  he's  been  here  ever  so  long,  and  grandfather,  and 
father;  they've  been  talking." 

"  What,  this  morning  ?     A  long  time  ?" 

"  Ever  since  Mother  Brewer  moved  me  up  in  the  corner. 
Captain  John  doesn't  speak  out,  like  grandfather." 

"  And  they  let  you  stay  here?" 

"Father  said  'twas  a  trouble  to  move,  and  they  hadn't 
time;  and  he  gave  me  this" — Barney  held  up  his  paper — ■ 
<'  to  cut  out  a  wolf  for  Captain  John ;  but  I  didn't  cut — I  lis- 
tened !"  His  brilliant  eyes  were  fixed  with  keen  intelligence 
upon  Ronald. 

"  But,  Barney,  they  didn't  mean  you  to  listen ;  that  was 
wrong." 

"They  talked  out  sometimes,"  said  Barney,  quickly. 
"  Grandfather  made  most  noise." 

"  And  they  went  away  just  before  I  came,  I  suppose  ?" 
said  Ronald. 

"  Just  a  bit  before.     Father  was  cross  then." 

"  Barney,  Barney,  what  does  Mr.  Lester  tell  you  ?" 

"  I  ain't  to  .say  father's  cross.     I  won't  say  it,  but  he  is." 

"  But  you  do  say  it ;  and  that's  naughty.  You  must  try  tc 
be  dutiful.     I've  told  you  so  often." 

"Captain  John's  cross  to  you  sometimes,  ain't  he?"  said 
Barney. 

A  perplexing  question  !  Ronald  replied  to  it,  indirectly, 
"  He  tells  me  when  I  don't  please  him." 

"  Then,  ain't  you  dutiful  ?" 

Ronald's  countenance  changed,  and  Barney's  quick  eye 
noticed  it.     "  When  father's  cross  I  don't  like  him,"  he  stiid; 


0-2-1  CLEVE    HALL, 

"that's  naughty  of  luc;  bat  you  always  like  Captain  John, 
rlou't  you  V 

"  We  mustn't  talk  about  liking  our  parents;  we  must  like 
them  anyhow,"  said  llonald. 

Barney  seemed  perplexed ;  but  presently  he  went  on  : — 
"  i\lr.  Lester  says  that  God  likes  good  people;  must  we  like 
wieked  ones  V 

Ronald  made  no  answer;  his  head  was  turned  aside,  and  a 
large  tear  was  rolling  down  his  cheek. 

Ixirney  caught  his  hand,  and  forced  him  to  look  at  him. 
"  Why  do  you  cry  ?  I  didu't  mean  to  make  you  cry !"  he 
said.      "  Is  it  'cause  Captain  John's  wicked  ?" 

"Because  I  am  wicked  myself,  too,  Barney;"  and  Ronald 
brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  Miss  Campbell  and  Miss  Rachel  think  you  very  good," 
said  Barney.  "They  say  if  I  go  to  Heaven,  that  you'll  go, 
too.      I  asked  thein  one  day;  for  I  shouldn't  like  to  go  alone." 

"  Miss  Campbell  and  31iss  Rachel  may  wish  me  to  go  to 
Heaven,  but  they  can't  tell  that  I  shall,"  said  Ronald;  "and 
we  must  be  very  good,  indeed;  you  know,  Barney,  to  go 
there." 

"That's  why  I  shan't  go,  then,"  said  Barney,  quickly; 
"  'cause  I  don't  like  father  when  he's  cross." 

"  But  you  know  you  must  say  your  prayers,  and  ask  God 
to  forgive  you,  Barney,  when  you've  been  so  naughty;  and 
then  perhaps  he  will  let  you  go  to  Heaven  still." 

"  Is  that  what  you  do?"  asked  the  child,  with  a  strangely 
inquisitive  expression  in  his  worn  face. 

Ronald  hesitated;  but  Barney  was  determined  upon  obtain- 
ing his  answer.  "  Do  you  say  prayers  when  you  are  naughty  ? 
Is  it  '  Our  Father',  you  say  ?"  He  would  not  let  Ronald  move, 
but  kept  his  hand  closely  clasped  between  his  own  small,  long 
fingers. 

"  Yes,  sometimes.  People  don't  always  say  the  same  prayer, 
you  know,  Barney,"  was  Ronald's  answer. 

"  I  like  '  Our  Father'  best,"  continued  the  child,  "  because 
Miss  Campbell  says  it's  God's  prayer ;  but  I  don't  say  it  when 
I  am  naught3\  I  say,  '  Pray  God,  forgive  me,  and  make  me 
ft  good  boy,  for  Jesus  Christ's  sake.'     Is  that  what  you  say  ?" 

"  Something  like  it,  sometimes;" — Ronald  still  hesitated. 

"  I'm  glad  you  say  it.  I  like  you  to  say  the  same  thinga 
as  me.  But  then  you  aren't  naughty  when  Captain  John's 
cross.     What  makes  you  naughty  ever  ?" 


CLEVE    HALL.  323 

"  A  great,  great  many  things,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Ronald. 

*'  But  tell  me  what;  I  want  to  know." 

"  I  couldn't  tell  you ;  you  wouldn't  understand." 

"Shouldn't  I?"  A  look  of  thought  came  over  his  face 
"When  I'm  a  man,  then,  I  shall  understand;  but  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  man." 

"  Don't  you,  Barney  ?     Why  not  ?" 

"  Men  are  wicked,"  said  Barney.  "  Wicked's  worse  than 
naughty." 

"  Oh !  Barney,  Barney !  who  taught  you  anything  about 
wickedness  ?" 

"  Father  taught  me  some,  and  IMother  Brewer.  She  topes 
I  shan't  be  like  father,  nor  grandfather,  nor  Captain  John, 
nor  any  of  them ;  and  so  I  say  in  my  prayers, — '  Please  God 
take  me  out  of  this  wicked  world.'     Do  you  say  that  too  ?" 

Something  seemed  to  rise  up  in  Konald's  throat,  to  choke 
his  utterance. 

Barney  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  him  intently,  and,  obtain- 
ing no  answer,  said,  half  reproachfully, — ''  You  wouldn't  like 
to  go." 

"  Shouldn't  I  ?  Oh,  Barney,  if  I  were  but  sure  !"  The 
words  escaped  apparently  without  intention ;  for,  the  moment 
afterwards,  llonald  added, — "Never  mind  me  though;  you 
are  sure." 

"  I  ain't,"  said  the  child,  quickly.  "  Miss  Campbell  tells 
me  to  say,  '  through  Jesus  Christ,'  to  make  sure ;  and  you  can 
say  it  too." 

Ronald  half  smiled.  "  Yes,  I  can  say  it  certainly ;  but 
saying's  not  everything.  Y'^ou'll  know  that,  fast  enough,  Bar- 
ney, when  you're  a  man." 

"  I  shan't  never  be  a  man ;  but  I  know  about  that  now," 
was  the  grave  answer. 

"What  do  you  know?"  Ronald  sat  down  by  the  couch, 
and  leant  over  the  child  fondly. 

"  I  know  He  got  us  the  place,  and  made  it  all  ready  for 
us ;  and  if  we  say  our  prayers  properly,  and  try  not  to  cry  and 
be  cross.  He'll  give  it  us." 

"  But  if  we  don't  say  our  prayers  proferly,  and  are  cross, 
what  then,  Barney  i"'  and  the  sorrowful  tone  struck  upon  the 
cliild's  ear,  though  he  could  not  comprehend  its  meaning. 

"  Somebody  else  will  take  our  place,"  he  said,  with  a  scru- 
tinizing look,  which  seemed  to  inquire  whether  Ronald  could 
possibly  be  alluding  to  himself. 


324  CLEVE    HALL. 

"And  we  shall  bo  punished,"  said  Ronald. 

"You  won't  be,"  said  Barney,  "because  you  say  your 
prayers  when  you  are  nauj^hty." 

"  Ah  !  but  Barney,  that  isn't  everything.  If  we  don't  do 
right,  we  deserve  to  be  punished." 

"  Parson  Lester  says  lie  was  punished  for  us,"  said  Bar- 
ney, quickly.  Konald  made  no  answer,  and  Barney  continued  : 
— "  l^arson  Lester  told  me  that  one  day  after  I'd  had  a  dream  ; 
and  I  thought  God  was  going  to  put  me  down  into  a  deep 
dark  place,  'cause  I'd  called  father  cross.  He  said  that  if 
I'd  say  my  prayers,  and  try  to  be  a  better  boy,  God  wouldn't 
punish  me,  because  Jesus  Christ  had  been  punished  for  me. 
It  was  very  kind  of  llim  to  be  punished,  wasn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  very  kind;  but  still,  if  we  don't  try  to  be  good,  we 
shall  be  punished,"  said  Ronald. 

Barney  looked  up  rather  impatiently : — "  But  I  don't  like 
to  think  about  being  punished, — I  like  to  think  about  being 
good  ;  and  Jesus  Christ  loves  me,  and  so  He  won't  punish  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,  Barney,  He  will;  if  you  are  naughty." 

"  But  He  won't  if  I  try  not  to  be  naughty.  Mother  Brewer 
was  scolding  me  last  time  Miss  Campbell  was  here,  and  she 
said  she  wasn't  to  scold  me,  'cause  I  was  trying;  and  so,  if  I 
try,  God  won't  scold  me.  And  I  do  try,"  he  added,  looking 
earnestly  at  Ronald's  face;  "  I  didn't  cry  once  all  day  yester- 
day." 

"  There's  a  good  little  man  ;  I'm  glad  to  hear  that;"  and 
Ronald  stroked  the  child's  head. 

"  And  He  loves  me  then,  don't  you  think  so  ?  Miss  Camp- 
bell says  He  does,  and  Miss  Rachel  said  He  loved  me  better 
than  you  do.     Does  He  ?" 

"  Ah  !  Barney,  yes,  I  know  He  must;  but  I  love  you  very 
much." 

"And  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart;"  and  Barney  raised 
himself  suddenly,  and  tried  to  reach  Ronald's  head,  that  he 
might  bend  it  down  to  kiss  him.  "  I  love  yoil  now,  and  I 
mean  to  love  you  when  I  get  to  Heaven ;  and  then  by-and-by 
you'll  come  there.  I'm  sure  there's  the  place  ready,  with 
your  name  upon  it" 

Ronald  looked  away,  and  busied  himself  with  replacing 
the  child's  cushions.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  to  make 
Bome  trifling  observation. 

_  Barney  was  perplexed ;  presently  he  said,  in  a  low,  almost 
fiightened  voice,  as  if  conscious  that  he  was  venturing  upon 


CLEVE    HALL.  325 

forbidden  ground,  "  I  should  like  to  know  whose  name's  there, 
besides.     Do  you  think  Captain  John's  is  ?" 

Ronald  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  and,  careless  of  the  child's 
presence,  he  leant  his  forehead  upon  the  arm  of  the  couch,  and 
groaned. 

"Don't  take  on;  what's  the  matter?  Please  don't  take 
on,"  said  Barney.  "  I  dare  say  he'll  be  there,"  he  added, 
seizing  upon  the  point  the  most  likely  to  have  caused  such 
distress.  "  Don't  take  on,"  he  continued,  trying  to  draw  away 
ll:/nald's  hand,  and  force  him  to  raise  his  head.  But  Ronald 
did  not  look  up  for  many  moments ;  his  countenance  was  so 
haggard,  when  he  did,  that  the  poor  child  gazed  on  him  with 
alarmed  amazement. 

"  If  Captain  John  says  his  prayers  he'll  have  his  place 
there,  too,"  he  said,  timidly.  "  And  we'll  ask  God  to  teach 
him  his  prayers,  shall  we  ?    I'll  ask  it  every  day,  if  you  will." 

Ronald  bent  down  and  kissed  him  with  a  woman's  tender- 
ness.    "  Barney,  will  you?     I  shall  like  that." 

"  Shall  you  ?  I  like  to  do  what  you  like.  I  can  say  it  when 
I  pray  God  to  bless  father,  and  grandfather,  and  brothers,  and 
sisters,  and  Ronald."  He  paused,  then  added, — "  I  never 
forsret  that ;  one  day  I  asked  if  you  might  have  the  place  next 
mine,  so  I  dare  say  you  will ;  and  'twill  be  so  happy." 

It  was  a  strange,  thrilling  feeling  which  those  few  words 
created  in  Ronald's  breast ;  he  could  scarcely  call  it  hope,  and 
yet  it  was  hope  :  even  when  he  felt  that  they  were  but  the  ex- 
pression of  a  child's  affection,  touching  upon  subjects  immea- 
surably beyond  its  comprehension.  They  were  so  vivid,  so 
undoubting;  the  faith  was  scarcely  to  be  called  faith,  it  was 
reality;  and  it  is  this  which  our  dim-seeing,  earthly  minds 
require  to  give  them  strength. 

A  smile  reassured  Barney,  and  made  him  feel  that  the 
cloud  had  passed  away;  and  suddenly,  with  a  child's  quick 
forgetful ness  of  the  serious  questions  which  had  been  occupy- 
ing his  mind,  he  insisted  upon  Ronald's  sitting  down  by  him 
to  show  him  how  to  cut  out  some  curious  figures  which  he  had 
promised  him.  All  his  thoughts  were  turned  into  that  channel, 
except  at  intervals,  when  any  sudden  noise  made  him  look  up 
timidly.  He  was  evidently  afraid  of  the  usual  visiters  at  the 
cottage,  at  last  he  begged  Ronald  to  go  to  the  back  yard  and 
see  if  Captain  John  was  there.  "  I  shouldn't  like  him  to  bo 
out  there,"  he  said;   "  perhaps  he'd  stay  there  all  night." 


32G  CLEVE    HALL. 

''  Oil,  I>;iriioy,  how  silly!  People  don't  stay  out  of  doorp 
all  iii^lit;  ami  if  he  did,  he  wouldn't  do  j^ou  any  harm." 

"  People  do  stay  out  all  nijiht,"  replied  Barney,  quickly. 
"  Father's  jjoing  to  be  out  to-nioht." 

"  To-nifjlit'/     What  for 'r*     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Mother  ]}rcwer's  coming  here;  grandfather  said  she'd  do 
for  mc." 

'*  I  don't  \inderstand.     Do  for  you  ?" 

"  Father's  going  away,"  continued  Barney ;  "  but  he  doesn't 
like  it." 

Ronald's  interest  was  excited  ;  but  he  said,  without  express- 
ing the  least  surprise,  "  Was  that  what  father,  and  grandfather, 
and  Captain  John,  were  talking  about  ?" 

"  They  made  a  great  hushing  and  whispering  iip  in  the 
corner;  I  couldn't  hear." 

"  But  you  heard  something?"  Bouald's  voice  was  tremu- 
lously eager. 

"  I  heard  grandfather  say  IMother  Brewer  should  come 
when  fiither  was  gone  in  the  boat.  They  didn't  stand  here; 
they  were  out  by  the  door." 

*'The  boat?  oh!"  And  Ronald's  interest  sank,  for  he 
tliought  it  was  only  some  smuggling  scheme  which  had  been 
planned. 

"  Is  it  anything  wicked,  do  you  think  ?"  continued  Barney ; 
'''cause  father  doesn't  want  to  go." 

"  I  can't  tell.     Was  that  all  you  heard  ?" 

The  question  was  too  direct.  The  boy  had  been  trained 
to  silence,  though  he  often  forgot  his  lesson ;  and  now,  recol- 
lecting himself,  he  said,  "  I  mustn't  tell  any  more ;  father 
won't  let  me ;  he'll  beat  me,  he  says,  if  I  do  ever  tell  what  I 
hear." 

"But,  Barney,  if  I  want  to  hear, — if  it  is  of  great  con- 
sequence that  I  should, — you  would  tell  me  then  ?"  Ronald's 
conscience  reproached  him,  as  the  words  were  uttered.  lie 
corrected  himself  quickly,  and  added,  "  But  never  mind,  never 
mind.     When  is  Mother  Brewer  coming  back?" 

"  I  don't  know.     You  aren't  going?" 

''Perhaps  so;  I  think  I  must.  Which  way  did  Captain 
John  go,  Barney?" 

"  Out  at  the  back  yard.  D'ye  think  he's  there  now  ?" 
The  old,  frightened  look  returned. 

"No,  no;  lie  quiet.     There's  nobody." 


CLEVE    HALL.  327 

''There  is  somebody;  I  hear  hhu.  Oh!  Ronald,  won't 
you  look  V 

"  Barney,  that's  uauj;-hty,  I  tell  you  there's  no  one ;  only — " 
he  stepped  to  the  window; — "yes,  can't  you  see?  I'll  move 
you ; — now,  look  out  at  the  door,  across  the  Gorge ;  who'a 
that  coming?  Some  one  you'll  be  glad  to  see,  I'll  answer 
for  it." 

The  child  stretched  his  neck  foi'ward,  so  as  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  pathway  vip  the  Gorge.  His  eyes  sparkled 
with  delight,  "  Miss  Campbell  and  Miss  Rachel !"  he  exclaimed, 
"and  the  young  gentleman,  too,  and  the  little  ladies !" 

"What,  Clement?"  Ronald  hurried  to  the  door.  The 
party  were  drawing  near.  Ronald  returned  again  to  the 
child  : — "  You  are  sure,  Barney,  that  grandfather  and  Captain 
John  are  gone." 

"  They  went  out  at  the  back,  you  can  see."  Barney  paid 
but  little  attention  to  the  question ;  his  interest  was  given  to 
the  new  arrivals. 

Ronald  quietly  opened  the  back  door,  and  went  into  the 
scullery,  and  from  thence  into  what  was  called  the  yard.  It 
was  shut  in  by  the  hills,  w^hich  rose  immediately  behind  the 
cottage,  but  there  was  no  regular  enclosure.  Nothing  was  to 
be  seen  from  it,  but  the  precipitous  banks  which  formed  the 
head  of  the  Gorge;  bare,  and  desolate,  and  scattered  over  with 
large  loose  stones  and  rocks.  Upon  one  of  these  rocks  Ronald 
mounted,  and  gazed  around  with  the  quick  sight  of  one  who, 
from  infancy,  had  been  tutored  to  vigilance.  At  some  distance 
was  the  track  which  led  from  the  secluded  Gorge  to  the  open 
common  between  Cleve  and  Encombe,  and  from  thence  to  the 
headland  of  Dark  Head  Point.  Along  this  path  one  figure 
was  to  be  seen ;  it  looked  like  Mark  Wood ;  but  no  one  else 
was  near,  except  the  party  just  arrived  from  Encombe.  He 
lieard  their  voices ;  the  children  and  Clement  were  running 
races, — Bertha  trying  to  keep  them  quiet,  lest  they  should 
come  too  suddeidy  upon  Barney.  They  seemed  all  in  high 
sy)irits.  Rachel  was  with  them ;  and  her  laugh  especially, 
with  its  sweet  ringing  tone,  came  distinctly  to  the  ear.  Ronald 
watched,  and  listened ;  and  the  feeling,  painfully  morbid, 
which  so  often  checked  him  in  his  happiest  moments,  riveted 
him  to  the  spot.  What  was  he,  that  he  should  attcnqit  to 
mingle  with  those  so  much  beyond  him; — whose  innocence 
and  ignorance  of  sin  he  could  never  hope  to  attain  ?  He  left 
tl'.e  rock;  and  walked  a  few  paces  away  from  the  housC;  to  a 


828  CLEVE    HALL. 

smooth  bit  of  turf,  almost  tlie  only  level  spot  nonr.  Win 
iiicliuation  was  to  go  away,  without  being  seen,  but  there  were 
other  restraining  feelings,  one  especially,  which  he  could  not 
account  for;  a  dread, — a  thought  that  he  must  remain  near  ag 
a  guard,  though  why,  or  for  what  purpose,  he  could  not  rea- 
sonably tell.  He  waited  till  they  had  entered  the  cottage,  and 
then  sat  himself  down  on  the  further  side  of  the  rock,  upon 
which  he  had  been  standing,  till  he  could  quiet  the  tumult  of 
his  feelings,  and  summon  courage  to  meet  them. 

There  was  an  intense  stillness  immediately  ai-ound  him. 
The  sea-gull,  the  cnly  living  creature  to  be  seen,  was  winging 
his  flight  towards  the  ocean  noiselessly,  and  not  even  the  tink- 
ling of  a  sheep-bell  broke  upon  the  wintry  quietness.  And 
yet  Ronald  listened ;  and  as  he  listened  he  heard  the  closing 
of  a  wicket-gate,  which  gave  admission  to  the  small  plot  of 
ground  near  the  cottage,  cultivated  as  a  gai-den.  It  startled 
him,  and  his  impulse  was  to  stand  up  and  look  round ;  but  he 
did  not  stand,  he  only  moved  so  as  to  see  without  being  seen. 
Two  men  passed  from  the  back  yard  into  the  garden,  one  was 
Captain  Vivian,  the  other  Avas  GoflP.  They  stood  and  spoke 
together  for  a  few  moments  ;  then  Captain  Vivian  went  down 
the  Gorge;  and  Gofi" — Ronald  did  not  see  what  became  of 
him,  but  when  he  looked  again  he  was  gone. 

There  was  no  shyness  nor  morbid  fancifulness  in  Ronald's 
mind  now;  his  thoughts  were  distracted  from  himself;  they 
were  set  upon  suspicion — very  incoherent,  but  still  enough  to 
quicken  his  perceptions.  Yet  his  only  definite  idea  was,  that 
GofF  was  lingering  about  in  the  hope  of  meeting  Clement, 
and  that,  by  watching,  he  could  be  a  safeguard.  This  idea 
made  him  go  at  once  to  the  cottage,  walk  round  it,  ascend  the 
hills  a  few  steps  to  look  about,  and  then  go  through  the  j'ard 
and  the  scullery,  glancing  quickly  and  carefully  around.  He 
could  not  see  any  one;  but  the  door  of  the  scullery  (which 
Ronald  remembered  to  have  shut  behind  him,  fearing  the 
draught  for  Barney)  was  open, — an  indication  that  some  one 
had  gone  out  since  himself.  As  far  as  he  could  tell,  no  one 
was  there  when  he  went  through,  yet  he  could  not  feel  quite 
sure.  The  scullery  was  large,  for  so  small  a  cottage,  crowded 
with  things  which  did  not  all  belong  to  Mark  Wood, — several 
casks,  and  boxes,  and  an  old  mahogany  chest,  which  were 
Goff's  property;  and  it  was  dark,  lighted  only  by  one  little 
window,  and  that  dimmed  by  the  hill  rising  behind  the  cot- 
tage; a  person  might  easily  have  been  overlooked,  standing  in 


CLEVE    HALL.  329 

the  fiirtlicst  corner.  Perhaps  that  might  hf.ve  been  the  case 
before ;  but  there  was  no  one  there  now,  Ronald  made  quite 
sure  of  that ;  and  then  he  fastened  the  door  in  the  inside,  and 
entered  the  outer  apartment. 

Bertha  had  taken  Barney  in  her  lap,  and  was  showing  him 
a  book  of  prints,  which  she  had  brought  with  her,  whilst  lla- 
chel,  kneeling  by  her  side,  watched  with  eager  interest  the 
expression  of  the  child's  face.  Clement  was  playing  with 
Mark  Wood's  dog,  in  front  of  the  cottage;  and  Louisa  and 
Fanny  were  running  up  and  down  the  banks. 

Barney  recognised  Ronald's  footstep  the  moment  he  en- 
tered, and  called  out  to  him,  without  any  introduction, — 
"Here's  a  beauty,  Ronald!  isn't  he?  And  ain't  she  kind?" 
he  added,  lowering  his  voice  to  an  aside,  as  Ronald  came  close 
to  him. 

<'  Very  pretty,  indeed,  Barney.  What  a  house  for  you  to 
live  in  !"  And  Ronald  drew  his  attention  to  the  brilliant  white 
edifice,  with  yellow  and  green  trees  standing  behind  it,  which 
formed  the  frontispiece.  He  was  glad  of  anything  to  cover 
his  shyness,  for  he  was  always  particularly  shy  with  Bertha 
Campbell;  she  knew  so  much  more  of  him  than  any  one  else 
did. 

"  Barney  told  me  you  were  gone,  Ronald,"  said  Bertha, 
giving  him  her  hand  with  a  cordial  smile,  which  said  more 
than  any  words. 

"  And  I  said  I  was  sure  you  were  not ;  that  you  had  only 
run  away  to  hide  yourself,"  said  Rachel,  laughing.  "  Do  you 
know,  Barney,  that  Ronald  very  often  tries  to  hide  himself 
when  he  sees  us,  only  he  is  so  tall  that  his  head  will  peep  out, 
wherever  he  is." 

"I  don't  like  hiding,"  said  Barney,  quickly  and  bluntly. 
"  Father  and  Captain  John  hide.  Ronald  went  to  see  after 
them." 

"  They  are  not  here,  are  they?"  Bertha  inquired  of  Ro- 
nald. 

"■  I  think  not ;  I  believe  not."  But  Ronald's  manner  was 
a  little  hesitating. 

Bertha  looked  uncomfortable.  "  I  felt  sure,"  she  said, 
"  that  we  should  meet  no  one  here,  unless  it  might  be  you, 
Ronald  ;  you  told  me  your  father  was  always  on  the  shore  at 
this  time  of  the  day." 

"  My  father  is  not  here,  now,"  replied  Ronald.     "  I  sa\i 


660  CLEVE   IIALli. 

him  p;o  down  the  Gorge.     GoflF,  too,  I  think,  in  gone;  but  ho 
has  been  here." 

Bertha  turned  pale.  "  lie  won't  be  coming  back,  you 
think  r' 

"I  hope  not;  I  don't  know  what  he  should  come  for;" 
but  as  he  said  this,  Konald  glanced  uneasily  at  the  door. 

"  Look  !  Here's  a  cow,  and  two  sheep,  and  a  big  dog,  like 
father's  Hover  !  Look  !  you  must  look."  Earucy  drew  llonald 
towards  him  impatiently. 

But  Konald  did  not  look,  his  thoughts  were  wandering. 

"  Show  them  to  me,  Barney,"  said  ilachcl,  whose  quick 
tact  made  her  see  that  both  Bertha  and  Bonald  were  full  of 
anxious  thoughts.  She  came  close  to  the  child,  and  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  the  book  for  him,  and  began,  in  her  simple 
way,  to  describe  the  pictures. 

"  Can't  you  come  out  with  me  for  a  few  minutes  ?"  said 
Bertha,  addi'cssing  Ronald. 

He  followed  her  to  the  door  without  speaking;  then,  as  hb 
caught  sight  of  Clement,  he  went  up  to  him  and  shook  him 
heartily  by  the  hand. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  here,  old  fellow,"  said  Clement, 
good-humoredly.  "  I  thought  you  were  buried  in  your  books. 
^Vhat  a  rage  you  have  for  them  now  I" 

"I  came  over  to  see  the  child.  I  come  most  days  when  I 
can.  Have  you  seen  any  one  go  by  here  just  these  last  few 
minutes  ?" 

"  Not  a  soul.     Whom  did  you  expect?" 

"  I  fancied  GofF  was  here,  he  was  just  now ;  but  I  suppose 
he's  gone,"  said  Ronald  carelessly.  "  When  does  Mr.  Lester 
come  back,  Clement  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     Aunt  Bertha  is  the  person  to  ask." 

"  He  doesn't  say  when  he  will  come;  he  may  be  here  any 
day,"  replied  Bertha. 

"  But  not  to-day  ?"  said  Ronald,  quickly. 

"  No,  not  to-day,  certainly.  A  friend  of  his  is  ill ;  that 
detains  him." 

Ronald  raised  his  eyes  to  hers,  and  read  in  her  face  that 
Mr.  Lester's  absence  was  a  source  of  anxiety.  There  was  an 
awkward  pause.  Clement  began  to  play  with  the  dog  again, 
and  ran  oiF  scrambling  up  the  bank,  and  trying  to  make  the 
animal  follow. 

Ronald  called  him  back.  '^  Halloa !  Clement,  Avon't  you 
do  somethinir  for  ice  ?' 


CLEVE    HALL.  331 

Clement  could  scarcely  refuse,  but  he  came  back  uu- 
willino'ly. 

"  I've  got  a  word  to  say  to  Miss  Campbell,  but  I  meant,  if 
I  could,  just  to  have  drawn  Barney  once  or  twice  up  and  down 
the  green.  He  mustn't  stay  out  more  than  a  few  minutes. 
AVould  you  mind  taking  him  out  for  me  ?  Rachel  will  wrap 
him  up." 

"  It  won't  do  to  trust  her,"  said  Bertha;  "let  me  go;" 
but  Ronald  prevented  her.  "Please  not;  I  am  sure  he  will 
let  Rachel  put  his  coat  on.  Be  off,  Clement ;"  and  Clement, 
naturally  good-natured,  and  flattered  at  being  trusted,  went 
into  the  cottage. 

Bertha  followed  him  with  her  eyes,  so  did  Ronald,  till  he 
was  out  of  hearing ;  then  he  turned  anxiously  to  Bertha,  and 
said: — "  I  wanted  him  gone;  isn't  Mr.  Lester  coming  back 
soon  ?" 

"  Soon,  but  not  directly;  at  least,  I  can't  be  sure,  Ronald ; 
why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  I  can  scarcely  tell.  I  wish  he  was  here,  or  that  Clement 
was  away." 

"  You  must  have  a  reason ;  why  don't  you  tell  it  me  at 
once?"  said  Bertha,  with  a  slight  impatienco  in  her  tone. 
-    /'Because  it  is  not  a  reason — only  suspicion — and  it  may 
all  be  wrong." 

"But  tell  me — tell  me — this  is  mere  tormenting;"  and 
Bertha  looked  and  spoke  great  annoyance. 

Ronald  was  pained,  and  his  answer  was  cold : — "  The  last 
thing  I  should  desire  is  to  torment  any  one,  still  less  Miss 
Campbell.  My  father  and  Goff  keep  their  plans  secret,  but 
that  they  have  them  I  don't  doubt.  It  can  scarcely  have  been 
for  nothing  that  Gofl  brought  Clement  to  the  Grange,  the 
other  night." 

"  To  the  Grange  ? — what  ? — where  ?" 
"  Surely  you  know.  He  was  there  three  nights  ago." 
Then  seeing  Bertha's  countenance  change,  he  went  on  : — 
"There  is  nothing  to  alarm  you;  he  only  came  with  Goff,  on 
liis  way  back  from  the  Hall,  and  rested  there  for  about  a  (juar- 
tcr  of  an  hour.  Clement  may  not  have  thought  it  worth  while 
t<j  mention  it,"  he  continued,  in  a  tone  of  exculpation;  "  he 
does  not  know  what  1  do." 

"Unjustifiable!  —  disgraceful!"  began  Bertha;  and  she 
looked  towards  the  cottage-door,  as  though  she  would  at  once 
have  gone  to  reproach  him. 


332  CLEYE    HALL. 

llonald  interrupted  her : — ''  I  will  ask,  for  my  own  sake, 
that  the  matter  may  pass  now.  He  will  feel  that  I  have 
betrayed  him,  and  he  won't  understand  my  motive." 

"80  mean! — so  deceitful  I"  exclaimed  Bertha;  and,  with 
a  .'^iah,  she  added, — "  These  are  the  things  which  make  one 
feel  that  one  is  working  for  nothing." 

llonald  made  no  reply  to  the  remark.  His  attention  wa3 
still  directed  to  the  cottajre. 

Bertha  considered  a  little.  ''  I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Lester, 
and  tell  him  that  he  must  return  without  delay." 

"Yes,  that  will  be  the  best  plan  —  much  the  best;"  and 

Ronald  spoke  eagerly  and  earnestly.    "  Till  he  comes "  he 

paused,  not  wishing  to  exaggerate  her  fears — "  I  will  do  my 
utmost  to  keep  Clement  from  the  Grange;  so,  doubtless,  will 
you." 

<*  Yes,  of  course.  "Wotxld  he  were  to  be  trusted !  But, 
Ronald,  I  may  trust  you  for  him." 

"  I  would  entreat  you  to  keep  him  with  you,"  replied 
Ronald,  gravely.  "  It  may  be  quite  out  of  my  power  to  help 
him." 

Bertha's  fears  were  again  awakened ;  and  she  said,  "  You 
have  a  motive  for  speaking  in  this  way,  and  you  are  afraid  to 
tell  it  me."  _    . 

"No,  indeed;  I  could  not  fear  to  tell  you  anything — 
everything.     I  have  a  motive — Clement's  safety." 

Bertha  looked  around  her  anxiously,  and  said,  "  We  had 
better  go  home  at  once." 

"  Yes.  Not  that  there  is  cause  for  fear  now ;  so  fiir,  at 
least,  as  I  know.  I  dread  more  Clement's  renewed  visits  to 
the  Grange ;"  and  Ronald  sighed  deeply. 
•  Bertha  saw  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  read  liis 
thoughts.  "  Ronald,"  she  said,  "  I  need  scarcely  tell  you 
how  I  thank  you." 

He  stopped  her.  <'jMiss  Campbell,  that  can  never  be 
required." 

Bertha,  without  heeding  him,  continued:  —  "You  will 
believe,  I  trust,  that,  even  if  forced  hereafter,  from  circum- 
stances, to  estrange  ourselves  apparently,  neither  Mr.  Lester, 
Edward  Vivian,  nor  myself,  can  ever  really  forget  your 
noble  conduct.  We  feel"  that  Clement  is  safe  with  yiu  as 
with  us." 

"  I  have  a  debt  to  pay,"  he  replied,  gloomily.  "  It  is  uot 
yet  discharged." 


CLEVE    HALL.  333 

"  The  debt  is  not  yours,"  replied  Bertha.  ''  I  was  unwise 
to  \aj  the  obligation  upon  you.  Mr.  Lester  has  made  me  sec 
this.     Let  me  entreat  you  to  forget  it." 

"  Forget  it !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Forget  that  the  name  I 
bear  can  never  be  uttered  without  a  thought  of  reproach — 
that  even  now  I  may  be  reaping  the  fruits  of  dishonor !  Miss 
Campbell,  tell  me  rather  to  forget  my  own  existence ;  to  bury 
it,  as  full  often  I  fain  would,  in  the  grave  !" 

"  Ronald,  this  is  wild  and  wrong.  Your  position  is  the  or- 
dering of  God's  Providence ;  and  the  grave,  when  we  seek  it 
for  ourselves,  is  not  the  death  of  dishonor,  but  its  birth  for 
eternity." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,  I  know  it.  But,  Miss  Campbell,  there 
are  feelings  to  which  you,  a  woman, — nurtured  in  innocence, 
your  name  untainted, — must  be  a  stranger.  You  have  never 
known  that  goading  feeling  for  which  even  Heaven's  Mercy 
has  no  cure — disgrace !"  The  word,  as  it  escaped  his  lips, 
was  almost  inaudible. 

"  I  may  not  have  known  it,  Ronald,  but  I  can  imagine  it, 
and  feel  for  it." 

"  Impossible  !  I  also  once  thought  I  knew  it  by  imagina- 
tion," and  he  laughed  bitterly.  Then,  in  a  half  scornful,  half 
sorrowful  tone,  he  went  on,  speaking  rapidly  : — "  There  is  a 
tale — my  father  read  it  to  me  once,  when  I  was  a  child — he 
little  thought  then  that  I  should  find  its  likeness  in  my  own 
history ; — it  tells  of  the  living  man  bound  to  the  dead,  and 
left  to  perish  in  the  lonely  wilderness.  Miss  Campbell," — 
and  his  eyes  flashed  for  a  moment,  and  became  dim  again  with 
struggling  anguish, — "that  is  disgrace — the  dead  sin  that 
clings  to  the  memory — inseparable  1" 

"  But,  Ronald,  it  is  not  your  own  disgrace;  and,  as  yet,  it 
is  not  disgrace  in  the  eyes  of  the  world." 

He  smiled  grimly.  "  Who  can  separate  the  father  and  the 
son?  When  the  living  man  sank  beside  his  dead  burden  in 
the  wilderness,  there  were  none  to  see ;  but  did  he,  therefore, 
feel  its  horror  the  less?  The  Eye  of  Heaven  is  upon  him  who 
is  disgraced  ;  and  were  it  possible  for  that  Eye  to  be  hidden 
from  creation — were  he  alone,  the  one,  solitary,  living  being, 
ill  the  vast  universe — there  would  be  the  eye  of  his  own  heart, 
irom  which  there  can  be  no  escape !  ]Miss  Campbell,  do  not 
try  to  comfort  me ;  tell  me  only  how  I  may  serve  you." 

"  I  will  not  try  to  comfort  you,  Ronald,"  replied  Bertha, 
"  in  your  present  mood  you  could  not  receive  comfort.     You 


•334  CLEYE    HALL. 

have  brooded  over  your  position  till  its  evils  have  assumed  s 
giant  magnitude.  Years,  and  experience,  and  God's  blessing 
upon  your  .sincerity,  "will  prove  to  you  that  even  when  disgrace 
is  irretrievable  in  the  eye  of  man,  it  is  never  so  in  the  sight 
of  God ;  that  before  him  we  arc  all  dishonored,  the  best  even 
as  the  worst ;  and  that  repentance,  which  has  restored  the  one, 
can  also  give  the  place  of  honor  to  the  other.  It  is  but  human 
pride  which  looks  upon  any  disgrace  as  indelible  before  God, 
for  it  is  only  that  which  rejects  the  Atonement  that  can  make 
'  the  sins  which  arc  as  scarlet  to  be  even  as  white  as  wool.'  " 

**  It  may  be  so;  the  time  may  come  when  I  may  feel  it." 

"  It  will  come  ;  I  do  not  doubt  it,"  replied  Iicrtha.    "  And, 

in  the  mean  while,  Ronald,  there  may  be  means "     She 

stopped,  afraid  of  being  carried  away  beyond  the  limits  of 
prudence. 

Ronald  waited  respectfully,  but,  finding  that  the  sentence 
was  not  concluded,  he  said,  "What  means?  For  what  pur- 
pose? There  are  none  which  Miss  Campbell  could  suggest 
that  I  should  not  be  too  glad  to  use." 

Still  Bertha's  face  expressed  doubtfulness;  but,  after  a  few 
seconds,  she  replied,  "  Means  of  averting  public  disgrace,  I 
was  going  to  speak  of;  but  I  ought  not  to  name  them  to  you, 
except  that  they  may  be  your  father's  safety." 

"  I  am  willing  to  hear  them,"  he  replied. 

"  It  is  but  repeating  what  I  have  said  before,"  continued 
Bertha.  "  You  will,  I  am  sure,  understand  that,  if  any  influ- 
ence of  yours  could  induce  your  father  to  own  the  wrong  we 
have  every  reason  to  believe  he  has  done,  Mr.  Vivian  is  the 
last  person  who  would  press  a  charge  against  him.  If  it  were 
only  for  your  sake,  he  wovild  overlook  everything;  he  owes 
h.s  life  to  you,  and  the  obligation  can  never  be  forgotten. 
All  that  we  desire  is  that  any  false  impression  should  be  re- 
moved from  General  Vivian's  mind.  Perhaps  there  would  be 
less  difficulty  in  bringing  him  to  this  point,  if  he  knew  that 
we  may  soon  be  in  a  position  to  compel  what  now  we  only  re- 
quest." 

A  cloud  of  haughty  feelings  darkened  Ronald's  counte- 
nance, and  he  turned  away.  But  the  feeling  was  momentary. 
He  came  back  again,  and  said,  with  stern  self-control,  "  It  is 
not  an  easy  task  to  require  a  son  to  bring  his  father  to  con- 
fession." 

Bertha  looked  distressed.  "  I  fear  I  have  done  wrong," 
bho  said;  ''yet  I  have  spoken  in  the  hope  of  averting  greater 


CLBVE    HALL.  33o 

evil.  One  thing  is  most  certain,  that  your  father's  dangei 
will  be  as  nothing  it"  he  himself  will  coiue  forward  and  acknow- 
ledge the  truth." 

"  And  if  he  does  not  ?" 

"  It  may  be,  I  must  not  say  it  is,  imminent.  Oh,  Ronald!" 
— and  Bertha's  voice  suddenly  changed  into  earnestness  most 
unlike  her  usual  placidity, — "  think,  I  beseech  you,  of  what  1 
say ;  think  of  what  you  may  avoid, — for  your  own  sake,  for 
your  mother's  sake."  He  stood  by  with  a  face  pale  as  death, 
but  made  no  answer.  She  read  the  working  of  his  mind : — 
"  Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  that  I  have  so  grieved  you.  At 
first,  when  I  told  you  all,  I  scarcely  knew  what  I  was  doing; 
I  longed  only  to  have  a  friend  on  our  side.  I  thought  you 
might  do  more  for  us  than  any  other  person." 

"  I  will  do  more.  As  there  is  truth  in  Heaven,  I  promise 
it ;  but  not  against  my  father's  safety." 

"  Not  against  it,  but  for  it.  Time  presses,  and  events  are 
hastening  on.  A  few  weeks,  a  few  days  even,  may  see  Ed- 
ward Vivian  openly  arrayed  against  your  father ;  they  may 
place  a  barrier,  Ronald,  between  us  for  ever.  I  am  not  speak- 
ing from  fear  or  fancy,  indeed  I  am  not.  If  you  ever  believed 
my  word,  count  upon  it  now,  if  possible." 

He  wrung  her  hand  in  silence,  and,  as  with  one  consent, 
they  both  moved  towards  the  cottage. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


rpHE  twilight  shades  were  gathering  round  the  woods  of 
X  Cleve  ;  the  heavy  trunks  and  leafless  branches  were  becom- 
ing one  dark,  indistinct  mass,  above  which  lurid  clouds  w-ere 
gathering  together  in  the  wintry  sky,  piled  into  fantastic  shapes 
of  mountains  gilded  at  their  crests,  and  traversed  by  lines  of 
fiery  light ;  and  islands  floating  in  seas  of  liquid  gold,  appearing 
for  a  moment,  and  then  passing  into  other  forms,  and  sinking 
swiftly,  yet  almost  imperceptibly,  into  darkness.  And  in  the 
library  at  Cleve,  in  a  heavy  arm-chair,  covered  with  crimson 
leather,  drawn  close  to  the  wide  hearth,  sat  General  Vivian; 
on  a  low  stool  at  his  feet  was  p]lla;  whilst,  resting  on  the  sofa 
opposite,  lay  Jlildrcd.      The  room  was  dark ;  yet  the  dancing 


330  CLEVE    HALL. 

liglit  from  the  blaziiio;  loi^s  flickered  along  the  walls,  and  seemed 
to  ininjj;le  mysteriously  with  the  departint^  rays  afar  in  the 
western  sky,  which  glimmered  faintly  through  the  narrow 
diamond  panes  of  a  window,  deeply  embayed. 

It  was  an  hour  for  kindly  thoughts, — the  expression  of 
those  inward  feelings  which  never  come  forth  so  freely  as  when 
twilight  or  darkness  veil  the  changes  of  the  countenance,  and 
we  speak,  as  it  were,  to  ourselves,  not  willing  to  recognise  the 
shadowy,  ghostly  forms  of  the  friends  who  are  scarcely  visible 
in  the  dimness. 

A  change  had  come  over  G  eneral  Vivian's  home  since  Ella 
had  become  its  inhabitant.  Months  before,  he  would  have 
spent  that  sobering  hour  in  reveries — severe,  if  not  gloomy ; 
and  Mildred,  fearing  to  intrude  upon  him  unsuramoned,  would 
have  used  the  lingering  moments  of  day  in  thoughts  of  quiet 
meditation, — blessed  indeed,  and  most  soothing,  yet  solitary, 
as  regarded  aught  of  communion  on  earth. 

Now  they  were  together,  talking  little,  thinking  much, — 
and  probably  very  differently, — yet  with  a  certain  feeling  of 
common  interest,  of  added  cheerfulness  and  hope.  Ella  was 
scarcely  to  be  thanked  for  this  :  at  first,  indeed,  her  presence 
had  been  a  restraint;  it  had  fretted  the  General's  conscience, 
though  he  would  not  acknowledge  it ;  and  he  had  seized  upon 
all  the  weak  points  in  her  character,  which  were  many,  and 
dwelt  upon,  and  exaggerated  them.  Yet  still  she  was  an  inte- 
rest to  him.  The  lonely,  stern  mind,  which  had,  for  years, 
lived  to  itself,  brooding  over  its  own  plans,  and  building  up  a 
tower  of  self-confidence,  was  now,  in  a  degree,  diverted  into 
another  channel.  Even  when  he  found  fault  with  her,  he  liked 
to  watch  her ;  and  when  he  did  watch  her,  his  strong  sense 
of  justice  assisted  him  against  his  prejudices.  Ella  was  im- 
proved, under  Mildred's  guidance;  she  had  made  resolutions, 
few  and  simple,  but  they  had  been  kept ;  and  this  had  given 
her  confidence ;  and,  of  her  own  accord,  she  had  then  ventured 
to  do  more.  The  General  perceived  this.  Ella  was  more 
punctual  at  breakfast  and  dinner,  and  that  pleased  him ;  she 
read  steadily,  and  when  he  questioned  her,  the  answers  brought 
out  her  talent;  and,  as  Mildred  had  hoped,  he  began  to  feel 
proud  of  her.  ^\'hen  it  was  proposed  that  she  should  go  home, 
he  felt  that  he  should  miss  her.  Not  that  he  would  acknow- 
ledge it  to  himself;  the  excuse  which  he  made  was,  that  she 
was  a  comfort  to  Mildred.  Yet  once  it  had  flashed  across  his 
uii'jd  whether  it  would  be  possible  to  keep  her  with  them 


CLEVE    HALL.  337 

alwaj-s, — he  did  not  say  to  adopt  her, — that  would  have  brought 
up  the  old  question  of  justice ;  but  without  minutely  considering 
the  arrangeuient,  he  fancied  that  she  niight  just  as  well  live 
at  one  place  as  at  the  other.  And  Ella,  on  her  part,  was  not 
without  some  degree  of  romantic  reverence  for  her  grandfather. 
His  very  faults  inspired  the  feeling.  She  could  see  into,  and 
through,  most  minds ;  she  never  seemed  to  reach  beyond  the 
suiface  of  his.  It  was  a  painful  fascination  at  first,  and  had 
sometimes  rendered  her  perverse.  She  amused  herself  by 
appearing  wayward,  and  expressing  strange,  wild  opinions 
before  him,  and  watching  their  effect  upon  him.  It  was  a  kind 
of  play,  in  which  she  was  the  heroine;  but  she  was  baffled  by 
him.  His  notice  was  too  slight  to  be  exciting ;  often  she  could 
not  tell  whether  he  even  heard  what  she  was  saying;  and 
when,  with  an  absurd  self-consciousness,  she  became  more 
extravagant,  and  more  wilful,  she  was  put  down  by  a  sharp 
rebuke,  which  yet  was  not  felt  to  be  irritating ;  for  it  was  the 
reproof  of  a  strong,  powerful  character,  given  without  petu- 
lance ;  and  there  is  more  pleasure  than  pain  in  this  kind  of 
subjection,  especially  to  those  whose  strength  is  mental,  rather 
than  moraL  She  became  in  consequence  more  gentle  and  sub- 
missive; and  the  very  difficulty  of  discovering  whether  her 
grandfather  was  pleased,  or  the  contrary,  gave  an  interest  to 
her  efforts.  There  was  a  little  quiet  excitement  always  going 
on  at  the  Hall,  which  afforded  a  stimulus  to  her  indolence, 
and  so  satisfied  her  conscience,  and  put  her  in  better  humor  ; 
and  at  length,  as  the  consciousness  dawned  upon  her  that  he 
was  beginning  to  like  her,  came  the  pleasure  of  power, — power 
over  one  whom  every  one  else  dreaded ;  and  Ella  loved  power 
dearly,  in  spite  of  her  indolence.  She  felt  that  she  could  amuse 
her  grandfather, — that  he  was  interested  in  her  conversation ; 
she  had  that  sense  of  being  appreciated,  which  especially  tends 
to  bring  out  talent,  and  this  made  her  exert  herself  the  more. 
All  these  motives  were,  of  course,  very  mixed, — they  could 
not,  in  any  way,  be  depended  upon  for  the  steady  improvement 
of  character ;  but  Ella's  faults  were  not  those  which  the  labor 
of  days  or  weeks,  or  even  of  months,  could  cure ;  they  were 
insidious  evils, — pride,  wilfulness,  indolence, — requiring  pa- 
tience and  self-examination,  and  constant  watchfulness ;  and 
Ellu  was  only  just  beginning  to  understand  her  defects, — how 
then  could  she  be  expected,  all  at  once,  properly  to  aj)ply  the 
remedies  ?  Mildred  was  often  obliged  to  say  this  to  herself, 
for  Ella  was  continually  disappointing  her, — and  eyen  her  good 
15 


3o8  CLEVE   HALL. 

deeds  were  not  seldom  alloyed  by  some  taint  of  the  old  leaA-en 
Most  especially  it  was  ditficult  to  make  licr  see  the  effect  which 
her  faults  had  upon  others.  Indolence  had  rendered  her  selfish, 
and  seltishness  prevented  her  from  puttiiifi;  herself  in  the  posi- 
tion of  those  with  whom  she  lived,  and  understanding^  their 
feelings.  Besides,  without  bcinu;  conceited,  she  had  the  con- 
sciousness of  talent  wliich  is  inseparable  from  its  possession  ; 
and  knowing  that  she  could  make  lierself  very  agreeable,  it 
was  not  easy  to  believe  that  she  was  often  just  the  contrary. 

Then,  too,  her  offences,  though  very  tiresome  and  irritating, 
were  not  the  result  of  wilful  malice,  if  the  expression  may  bo 
used.  She  was  always  wishing  to  be  much  better  than  she 
was,  and  fancied  that  every  one  must  see  this,  and  understand 
it;  and  so,  when  she  had  done  wrong,  the  fault  was  blotted 
from  her  own  memory  quickly,  because  there  was  no  de])th  of 
bad  intention  in  it,  and  she  forgot  that  without  a  confession  or 
an  apology,  it  could  not  be  forgotten  by  those  who  witnessed 
it.  She  would  be  most  provokingly  disregardful  of  JMildred's 
wishes,  and  would  even  speak  to  her  proudly  and  disrespect- 
fully, and  then  go  about  her  usual  occupation  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  and  return  to  Mildred  in  perfect  good  humor, 
without,  perhaps,  the  thought  once  crossing  her  mind  that  her 
aunt  had  reason  to  be  annoyed. 

Every  day  made  Mildred  see  more  plainly  how  much 
Bertha  must  have  had  to  bear  with  in  a  character  so  uulikt 
her  own. 

Yet  there  was  an  improvement,  an  obvious  one,  and  Mil 
dred  was  by  nature  patient  and  hopeful,  and  Ella  was  ver^ 
youag,  and  had,  it  was  to  be  trusted,  a  long  life  before  her  fol 
the  task  of  self-discipline,  and  so  it  was  not  difficult  to  give 
her  encouragement;  and  this  made  Ella's  life  much  happier 
than  it  was  at  home,  and  rendered  even  the  silence  of  the  old 
Hall  more  cheerful  to  her  than  the  mirth  of  the  Lodge. 

She  was  cheerful  now  as  she  sat  with  her  grandfather  and 
aunt  in  the  twilight,  ruminating  upon  her  own  fancies,  and 
from  time  to  time  venturing  to  give  them  forth ;  and  Mildred 
had  a  pleasure  in  listening  to  her,  even  though  occasionally 
she  saw  cause  to  check  her. 

"  Grandpapa,  do  you  and  Aunt  Mildred  never  go  to  Lon- 
don ?"  was  the  question,  after  a  silence  rather  longer  than 
usual. 

'^  What  should  we  do  in  London,  child  ?  We  can  neither 
of  us  move  about." 


CLEVE    HALL.  339 

"  But  it  would  be  the  world;  Eucombe  and  Clove  arc  not 
tlie  world." 

"They  form  our  world/'  observed  Mildred,  "and  that 
satisfies  lis." 

"  But  they  are  not  the  world, — the  real  world.  It  is  like 
being  iu  a  dream  living  here." 

"  And  you  don't  like  the  dream,  Ella?"  The  General  did 
not  mind  asking  the  question ;  he  knew  he  was  quite  safe  as 
to  the  answer. 

"  Oh,  yes,  grandpapa,  I  do.  Sometimes  I  think  it  is  a 
dream  I  should  like  never  to  waken  from." 

The  General  patted  her  head,  and  Ella  drew  nearer  to  him. 
"  But,  grandpapa,  don't  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  There  is  a 
diiference  between  dreaming  and  living." 

"  A  wide  difference,"  said  Mildred,  laughing,  "but  I  should 
have  thought,  Ella,  that  dreaminess  was  quite  iu  your  way ; 
you  don't  like  active  exertion." 

"  But  I  like  to  see  it  in  others,"  said  Ella,  "  and  that  is 
why  I  should  like  to  live  in  London." 

"  You  would  soon  grow  weary  of  it,"  remarked  the  Gene- 
ral, shortly. 

"  Bid  you,  grandpapa  ?"  The  question  was  an  experiment. 
Ella  often  tried  to  make  him  talk  of  his  young  days.  Occa- 
sionally he  would,  but  he  was  very  uncertain. 

"  Yes,  too  soon  for  my  own  good,  or  for  others'  pleasure," 
was  the  reply.  "  They  would  have  had  me  live  in  London, 
Mildred,"  he  added,  less  gloomily.  "What  would  you  have 
said  to  that  ?" 

"  Not  part  with  Cleve,  grandpapa  !"  exclaimed  Ella,  inter- 
rupting the  answer. 

"Ay,  child,  part  with  it,  every  acre;  sell  it,  divide  it, 
scatter  it  to  the  winds ;  the  property  which  had  come  down 
from  generation  to  generation  for  the  last  four  hundred  years." 

It  was  sti-ange  the  impulse  which  made  the  General  revert 
to  such  a  subject;  perhaps  his  conscience  was  never  tho- 
roughly satisfied  as  to  the  course  he  had  taken  in  life,  and  so 
he  tried  to  talk  himself  into  the  conviction  that  it  had  been 
in  all  respects  a  right  one.  He  went  on  :  "  We  should  have 
led  a  difierent  life,  Mildred,  if  we  had  lived  in  London.  I 
might  have  been  a  gay  cavalier;  a  courtier;  who  knows?  But 
it  was  a  weary  life,  the  little  that  I  saw  of  it." 

"But  you  never  went  much  into  society,  did  you,  sir?" 


o40  CLEVE   HALL. 

askod  ^lildrcd,  encouraging  the  conversation,  .since  lie  seemed 
to  enter  into  it. 

"  I  had  not  the  means,"  was  the  quick  reply.  '''  Ella,"  and 
the  General  turned  to  his  granddaughter,  and  spoke  with  siul- 
den  harshness,  "remember  that;  whatever  you  do,  never  live 
beyond  your  means." 

"I  have  no  means,  grandpapa."  She  said  it  simply,  wit!"- 
out  any  purpose,  but  it  had  one  unconsciously. 

The  Genend  moved  his  hand,  which  had  been  resting  on 
her  shoulder,  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

Ella  was  not  aware  what  she  had  done.  It  was  too  com- 
mon an  occurrence  for  a  conversation  to  break  off  abruptly,  to 
cause  any  surprise.  She  looked  into  the  fire,  and  made  imagi- 
nary hills,  and  rocks,  and  roads,  out  of  the  red  coals,  and  was 
quite  happy. 

Not  so  Mildred.  The  spirit  of  the  old  times  was  creeping 
over  her;  she  waited  anxiously  for  the  General's  next  words. 

"  We  had  better  have  candles,  Mildred."  Very  little  there 
was  in  the  words,  but  very  much  in  the  tone. 

"  Oh,  please  not,  yet,  grandpapa,"  exclaimed  Ella.  "I  waa 
just  in  the  midst  of  such  a  charming  story." 

"  A  fireside  story,  I  suppose,"  said  Mildred,  relieved  by 
Ella's  having  given  a  turn  to  her  thoughts. 

"  Yes,  a  fascinating  one.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  see  it. 
There  is  the  pass  over  the  mountains,  and  the  travellers  have 
just  got  to  the  top,  and  now  they  are  going  down  the  other 
side,  into  such  a  lovely  country.  Do,  grandpapa,  let  us  have 
the  fire-light  a  little  longer." 

"  Waste  of  time,  child;"  but  the  General  delayed  to  ring 
the  bell. 

"  Is  it  ?  But  why  were  such  fancies  given  if  they  are  not 
to  be  indulged  ?" 

''  They  are  very  well  for  children,"  replied  the  General. 

"Then,  grandpapa,  please,  I  am  a  child." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,"  said  Mildred,  laughing. 
"  You  are  much  worse  than  either  Louisa  or  Fanny,  I  suspect, 
in  your  love  of  stories." 

"  They  won't  help  you  on  in  the  world,  Ella,"  observed  the 
General.     "  Trust  my  word  for  that." 

"  But,  grandpapa,  have  you  ever  tried  ?  Did  you  like  stories 
when  you  were  young  ?" 

"  Ileal  stories;  not  such  as  you  fancy." 

"  Stories  of  things  which  have  really  happened,"  said  Ella 


CLEVE    HALL.  341 

in  a  musinf;  tone.     "  Perhaps  every  one's  life  is  a  sturj^,  if  ono 
could  but  read  it." 

''  Yes,  Ella," — General  Vivian  spoke  with  mournful  ear- 
nestness,— "  a  story  only  understood  when  it  is  too  late  to 
rectify  its  blundere ;  so  I  would  have  you  consider  it  carefully 
before  it  begins." 

"  Mine  is  begain,  gi'andpapa." 

"  Not  begun  so  that  it  can't  be  altered,  though,"  observed 
Mildred,  with  something  of  tremulousuess  in  her  voice. 

''  No  person's  life  is  such  that  it  can't  be  altered,"  said 
Ella. 

"  Not  exactly,  but  there  is  a  very  different  feeling  about  it 
as  one  grows  older.  It  becomes,  as  it  were,  fixed;  circum- 
stances and  relations  are  formed  ;  it  seems  as  if  one  could  better 
foresee  the  future.     Now  your  future,  Ella,  may  be " 

"  Anything,"  exclaimed  Ella,  quickly.  "  I  like  to  think 
of  it  sometimes,  it  is  so  exciting ;  only  frightening,  too." 

The  General  had  been  sitting  in  a  musing  posture,  appa- 
rently only  half  hearing  the  last  words  of  the  conversation. 
lie  broke  in  upon  it,  however,  here.  "Why  should  it  be 
frightening,  Ella?" 

She  hesitated,  and  the  General  repeated  his  question  more 
peremptorily. 

"Because, — I  don't  quite,  exactly  know,  why,  grandpapa; 
but  we  have  led  a  wandering  life,  and  strange  things  have 

happened  ;  and "  a  pause  and  a  glance  at  Mildred.    "  You 

know  we  can't  always  live  with  grandmamma." 

Mildred  raised,  herself,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  ring 
the  bell. 

"  Not  yet,  Mildred  ;  we  won't  have  candles  yet.  You  can't 
live  with  your  grandmamma,  you  say,  Ella.  What  change  do 
yciu  expect  V 

"  I  don't  know,  grandpapa.  Aunt  Mildred,"  and  Ella 
looked  round  for  help;  "do  you  think  we  shall  always  live 
with  grandmamma  r"' 

"  Perhaps  not,  my  love;  we  had  better  leave  the  future." 

"  Yes,  much  better, — a  great  deal  better."  The  General 
spoke  very  gravely.  "  Ella,  it  won't  do  to  make  dreams  of  the 
future." 

"  Aunt  Bertha  tells  me  enough  to  frighten  me  about  it," 
rc]»lied  Ella;  "she  says,  when  she  is  angry,  that  1  may  have 
to  work  i'or  my  bread." 

"  Oh,  Ella  !''   the  words  esciiped  Mildred  involuntarily,  and 


342  CLEVE    HALL. 

a  siulden  movement  made  it  seem  that,  but  for  licr  helplessness 
she  would  have  spniiiu;  from  the  sofa  to  stop  Ella. 

"  Let  her  p;o  on,  Mildred ;  what  else  docs  your  Aunt  Bertha 
say  to  you,  Ella  ?" 

"  Nothing, — not  much  else."  Ella  felt  she  was  getting  Iwtc 
a  difhculty. 

"  She  thinks  you  will  have  to  Avork  for  your  broad,  does 
she?     Are  yoix  prepared  for  tliat'r"' 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Should  you  like  it  ?" 

"Grandpapa!  No.      Does  any  one  like  it?" 

*' Persons  with  energy  don't  niiiul  it,"  said  Mildred,  rather 
sternly. 

"  Stop,  Mildred,  don't  interrupt  her.  Shoald  yoii  like  it, 
Ella  ?" 

"No,  grandpapa,  I  don't  think  I  should."  Ella  looked  up 
at  him  perplexed  by  the  f|ucstion. 

lie  stirred  the  fire  and  spoke  at  the  same  time,  turning  his 
head  away  from  her.  The  accent  was  low  and  trembling;  it 
came  from  a  weary  heart :  "  W'ould  you  live  here,  Ella,  with 
me,  then ;  and  I  would  provide  for  you  ?" 

A  strange,  unbroken  silence.  Mildred  could  hear  the  beat- 
ing of  her  own  heart,  running  its  rapid  race  with  the  ticking 
of  the  quaint  old  clock  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  The  Gene- 
ral pushed  back  his  chair  as  thoiigh  he  would  rise.  Ella  felt 
the  movement,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  knee.  "  Grandpapa, — ■ 
Aunt  jMildred, — what  must  I  say?" 

"  What  you  feel,  dear  Ella,"  said  Mildred. 

"  The  truth,"  said  the  General. 

"Grandpapa,  I  should  like  it,  but — oh!  Aunt  Mildred, 
help  me;"  and  Ella  rose  and  went  to  Mildred's  sofa,  and  knelt 
down  by  her. 

"  What  is  it,  Ella  ?  Speak,  dear  child,  without  fear,"  she 
whispered. 

"  I  can't.     I  could  tell  you  alone." 

INIildred  glanced  at  her  father.  A  clear  flame  from  the  fire 
cast  a  bright,  yet  ominous,  light  upon  his  features ;  it  seemed 
to  alter  them, — to  make  them  look  more  worn;  the  haggard 
face  was  set  as  in  a  framework  of  darkness. 

"  Go  to  him,  and  tell  him  what  you  mean,"  whispered  Mil 
dred  to  Ella.  And  Ella  looked  round  at  her  grandfather,  and 
shrank  from  the  cold  severity  of  the  fixed  gaze  directed  to  the 
fire.    "  Ella,  he  will  be  angry  if  you  don't,"  repeated  Mildred. 


CLEVE   HALL.  343 

Ell:i  weut  up  to  him.  ''  Dear  grandpapa,  it  is  very  verj 
kind  of  you;"  she  kissed  his  forehead.  "I  should  like  to 
stay  here;  I  am  very  happy  here;  only" — her  hesitation  was 
almost  suffocating — "  would  it  be  right  if  papa  were  kept 
away  ?" 

A  groan  was  heard,  but  the  tall  figure  sat  erect,  cold,  im- 
movable ;  it  might  have  been  a  lifeless  statue  rather  than  a 
living  being  into  whose  ear  the  words  were  ^noken. 

"Ella,  my  crutches  !  Help  me,  will  you  ?"  said  Mildred. 
Ella  gave  them  to  her.  "  Now,  leave  us ;  I  will  send  for  you 
when  you  may  come  back."  And  Mildred  moved  slowly  across 
the  room,  and  seated  herself  in  a  chair  which  Ella  placed  for 
her  by  the  General's  side. 

The  door  was  closed,  and  Ella  gone.  The  General  heard 
the  sound,  and  slowly  turned  his  head.  "  Mildred !" — She 
laid  her  hand  in  his ;  her  eyes  were  raised  to  his  face ;  she 
saw  teare  streaming  down  his  cheeks. — "  My  child  !  clinging 
to  me  through  all !"  he  murmured. 

"  To  whom  else  should  I  cling,  my  dear,  dear  father?" 

"  Whom  else,  indeed  !  We  are  alone  in  this  world  ;  even 
Ella  cannot  sacrifice  herself  to  live  with  us."  He  said  it  bit- 
terly. 

"  Hers  is  a  strange  nature,"  replied  Mildred.  ''  I  should 
not  have  expected  such  thought." 

"  It  has  been  her  teaching,"  said  the  General. 

"  Or  the  teaching  of  nature.  Would  you  like  her  as  well 
if  she  did  not  feel  it  ?" 

"  She  has  no  cause  for  it,"  he  replied,  abruptly. 

"  If  it  were  my  case,  you  would  expect  me  to  feel  it." 

''  I  have  not  jjrought  disgi-ace  upon  you,  Mildred."  The 
General  averted  his  head,  and  withdrew  his  hand. 

Mildred's  heart  seemed  to  rise  up  in  her  throat  as  she 
said,  "  Ella  does  not  see  her  father's  disgrace,  dear  sir.  Nei- 
ther, perhaps,  do  othere." 

They  were  bold  words.  Month  after  month,  and  year  after 
year,  since  the  first  outburst  of  anger,  had  the  father  and 
daughter  dwelt  beneath  the  same  roof  with  that  one  mutual 
sorrow,  yet  never  approaching  it,  except  by  distant  allusions. 

The  General  replied  calmly,  his  tone  and  manner  so  unsha- 
ken that  it  struck  Mildred  as  something  fearful.  "  The  wcrld 
docs  think  him  disgraced,  Mildred;  though  his  relations  maj 
not." 


344  CLEVE    HALL. 

*'  lie  did  vory  wroni;,  sir;  liis  iiiurrin^c  was-  most  uiifordi 
Date;  indeed,  we  sec  it  all." 

"  Only  it  is  not  disgrace,"  he  replied,  with  cold  sarcasm. 

"  Not  his  inarriage,  certainly." 

"And  not  his  gainblinL!;  ? — his  friendship  with  that  rascal, 
John  Vivian?  Mildred,  31ildred  !" — -he  put  his  face  close  to 
hers  and  lowered  his  voice — "  I  know,  if  you  do  not;  he  dis- 
honored my  n'l.ne  once ;  and  I  would  have  it  blotted  for  ever 
from  thn  eaith  rather  than  trust  him  to  dishonor  it  ag-ain." 

Still  Mildred's  voice  was  gentle,  though  earnest.  "I  ara 
aware  I  don't  understand  it  all,  sir." 

"No,  you  don't  understand  ;  no  one  does  nor  can.  And  I 
have  borne  all; — Mr.  Lester's  strictures,  your  sorrow,  my 
friends'  judgments — all — all  I  have  endui-cd  rather  than  tell" 
— his  voice  changed  suddenly,  it  became  fiercely  eager — "but 
would  you  know  it,  Mildred?  Shall  I  show  you  what  your 
brother  was  ?  what  he  could  do  ?"  He  stood  up,  pushed  aside. 
his  chair,  and  turned  to  the  ebony  escrvitoire  which  was  close 
to  it.  Mildred  gave  him  a  taper;  he  lighted  it,  and,  with  an 
unsteady  hand,  tried  the  lock.  Tlie  taper  went  out;  here- 
lighted  it,  opened  the  cabinet,  drew  out  some  small  drawers, 
searched  in  them,  then  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  trying  to 
recollect,  and  searched  again. 

"  Your  private  papers  ai'e  in  the  upper  box,  sir,"  Mildred 
ventured  to  say. 

"  Yes,  yes."  He  was  impatient  at  the  suggestion,  but  he 
took  down  the  box.  The  light  of  the  taper  was  faint,  and  he 
could  scarcely  see  by  it,  but  Mildred  did  not  venture  to  pro- 
pose ringing  for  a  lamp. 

The  General,  however,  did  so  himself,  and  till  it  was 
brought,  sat  silent  in  the  arm-chair. 

"  I'ut  the  little  table  near  me,  Greaves,  and  that  box  upon 
tt."  He  watched  the  butler's  movements  with  an  irritable 
eye.  Then,  when  the  man  was  gone,  he  began  to  look  through 
the  papers. 

The  se  irch  was  perplexing,  though  Mildred  thought  at  first 
that  it  was  OTily  painful.  He  muttered  to  himself,  "  It  was 
here, — in  this  packet.  I  can't  have  mislaid  it,"  and  again  he 
S(^arched  through  the  packet,  whilst  his  features  assumed  a 
most  distressed  look  of  doubt,  and  effort  at  recollection. 

Mildred  said  at  length  :  "  If  you  would  not  trouble  your- 
self, my  dear  father,  but  tell  me,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  wouid 
rather  hear  than  see." 


CLEVE    HALL.  -345 

lie  took  no  notice,  but  went  on  as  before.  Mildred  watched 
Iiim  anxiously,  for  she  fancied  he  did  not  quite  know  what  he 
was  doing. 

''  I  would  look,  dear  sir,"  she  said,  "  if  you  would  tell  me 
what  to  find." 

"I  can't;  it  was  here;  somebody — Mildred,  who  has 
touched  my  box  V  he  addressed  her  angrily. 

"■  No  one,  Sir.     No  one  could  ;  it  is  always  in  your  room." 

A  sudden  dawning  of  recollection  crossed  the  General's 
mind.     He  muttered  31  r.  Lester's  name. 

"  You  were  looking  at  papers  the  other  day,  Sir,  wiUi  3Ir. 
Lester,"  said  Mildred. 

His  face  became  more  troubled,  but  he  put  aside  the  box, 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"  Mr.  Lester  may  be  able  to  assist  you  in  finding  it,"  said 
Mildred,  "but  you  could  tell  me  if  you  would  what  it  was;  it 
makes  me  very  anxious."  And  the  tone  certainly  gave  full 
efiect  to  her  words. 

He  raised  his  head,  and  gazed  upon  her  as  one  in  a  droani ; 
his  voice,  too,  had  something  in  it  of  a  wavering,  faltering 
tone. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  tell  it ;  he  is  gone  from  us, 
Mildred, — well  that  he  is;  he  would  have  squandered  all." 

"  He  was  extravagant,  but  he  might  have  learnt  wisdom," 
observed  Mildred,  timidly. 

"■  Extravagant !  yes."  The  General  tried  to  raise  the  lid 
of  the  box,  which  he  had  unintentionally  closed.  Mildred 
stopped  him. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  show  me  a  list  of  his  bills,  dear  Sir?  I 
think  I  know  them." 

"  Bills,  did  you  say,  Mildred  ?  Little  cared  he  for  bills 
when  he  could  give  checks,  and  promise  away  what  was  to  be 
ills  after  my  death.  His  !  his  !"  he  repeated,  and  his  scornful 
laugh  struck  an  icy  chill  to  Mildred's  heart.  "  But  it  was 
reckoning  a  little  too  much  without  his  host,  don't  you  think 
KO,  Mildred?  A  man  can't  build  upon  his  own,  when  life 
stands  in  the  way  of  possession.  My  life  !  his  father's  !  But 
that  was  easily  set  aside.  His  wish  was  father  to  his  thoughts, 
eh,  Mildred?  He  didn't  think  I  sho\dd  have  been  such  an 
old  man.  But  I  have  outwitted  him — stopped  him  when  he 
least  expected  it ;  he  has  no  inheritance  now  to  play  ducks 
and  drake  with." 


346  CLEVE    IIALI>. 

"  I  (loii't  unrlerstnnd  you,  dear  sir,"  said  3Iildrcd,  iiida 
scribablj  alarmed  at  his  manner. 

''  No,  how  should  yo.u  ?  AVhnt  do  women  know  of  snoh 
matters?  I  would  have  shown  it  you,  but  I  can't."  He  tried 
aijain  to  open  the  box,  but  his  hand  trembled  so  violently'  that 
IMildred  took  the  key  from  him,  yet  without  placing  it  in  the 
lock. 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  said,  "that  he  drew  upon  you  for 
more  money,  Sir,  than  he  had  a  right  to  ?" 

"  Drew  upon  me,  Mildred  ?  Promised  it,  I  say ; — pledged 
it;  would  have  given  my  lands  to  the  Jews, — to  worse  than 
Jews, — to  that  scoundrel,  John  Vivian.  Pshaw,  why  can't 
I  show  you  the  proof?" 

"  It  is  impossible !  Edward  could  never  have  done  it,"  ex- 
claimed Mildred,  in  a  voice  of  agony. 

The  General  shrank  from  the  sound  of  the  name,  but 
almost  immediately  recovered  himself.  "  I  will  find  it,  and 
you  shall  see  it;  not  now, — to-morrow,  by  daylight  I  can  find 
it.  I  have  it  here,"  lie  added,  with  a  tone  of  sad  triumph; 
"in  his  own  handwriting;  the  promise  given  to  John  Vivian, 
Esq.,  that  after  my  death, — after  my  death,  reniember, — the 
sum  of  five  thousand  pounds  should  be  paid  to  redeem  his 
debts  of  honor;  his  own  handwriting,  his  own  signature." 

"There  must  have  been  a  mistake;  it  coulduot  be;  it  is 
impossible,"  exclaimed  Mildred  again. 

"  Doubtless  !  a  mistake  !  impossible  !  John  Vivian  must 
have  been  deluded ;  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes  must  have 
deceived  me ;  the  evidence  of  one  who  saw  the  promise  signed 
must  have  been  at  fault.  Why,  Mildred,  child,  did  I  not  say 
the  same  myself?  Say  it,  almost  believed  it,  when  the  actual 
proof  was  before  my  eyes.  And  did  not  John  Vivian  stand 
by,  with  his  bold  defiance,  and  urge  upon  me  to  call  up  the 
man, — the  poor  wretch  who  had  been  the  plotter  of  that  mise- 
rable marriage, — the  confidant  of  both;  he  who  had  seen  the 
actual  words  written  ?  Talk  not  to  me  of  mistake,  Mildred ; 
there  are  deeds  in  which  there  can  be  no  mistake." 

"  Edward  had  no  opportunity  given  him  of  exjilanation," 
said  Mildred. 

"What!  child,  when  I  wrote  to  him,  and  my  letter  waE 
unanswered.  He  had  no  explanation  to  give,  lie  had  been 
befooled  himself.  He  gave  his  worthless  bond  to  John  Vi- 
vian, little   thinking  that  it  would  be  brought  to  me ;   and 


CLEVE    HALL.  347 

when  it  was  brought,  he  was  sunk  in  my  eyes,  and  in  his  own, 
for  ever." 

"  But  you  paid  the  money,  and  so  owned  the  justice  of  the 
daim,  sir,"  said  Mildred. 

"Justice  to  myself,  to  my  own  honor,  for  the  last  time. 
My  son's  debts  were  a  claim  upon  the  name  which  he  bore, 
and  I  acknowledged  them  even  to  the  utmost  farthing.  But 
from  that  hour  he  ceased  to  be  my  son ;  and  now  let  him  go 
and  pray  the  winds  to  hear  him;  they  will  listen  as  soon 
as  I." 

Mildred's  heart  failed  her.  A  few  minutes  before,  she  had 
fancied  that  the  time  might  be  near  for  telling  him  that  Ed- 
ward was  in  England.  Now,  she  only  said,  "  He  has  severely 
suffered  for  his  ofteuces." 

No  reply.  She  went  on  further,  her  words  being  uttered 
with  extreme  precision  : — "  He  is  very  penitent,  whatever  he 
may  have  done." 

"  So  are  we  all,  when  punishment  falls  upon  us,"  was  the 
stern  answer. 

<'  Years  have  given  him  experience,"  she  continued. 

''  So  have  they  given  to  me,"  replied  the  General. 

''  And  you  would  not  trust  him,  then  ?"  She  spoke  in  a 
tone  of  doubtful  timidity. 

"Trust  him?  Yes,  I  would  trust  every  man  whose  hands 
are  chained,  and  whose  feet  are  fettered.  He  is  doing  well, 
you  say.     Let  him  thank  God  for  it,  as  I  do." 

"  But  if  he  has  suifered,  and  is  penitent,  my  dear  father, 
would  there  be  no  hope  for  him  ever  ?" 

"  Mildred,  you  speak  ignorantly.  It  may  seem  that  you 
are  addressing  a  cold,  harsh  old  man — nay,  don't  stop  me  ; — 
1  am  not  blind  to  what  is  passing  around  me,  though  often  it 
is  tho'.ight  I  am.  The  world  thinks  me  such,  so  do  you,  so 
does  Mr.  Lester.  Cold,  strict  prejudice,  that  is  my  character; 
— a  true  one,  in  a  certain  sense.  Do  you  know  who  made  me 
so  .'*  My  father — my  grandfather — his  father  before  him  ;  for 
the  sins  of  my  ancestors  have  been  my  conscious  inheritance 
from  my  boyhood.  Listen,  Mildred.  As  a  little  child  I  was 
generous,  open  hearted,  unsuspicious.  I  flung  my  money  away 
to  me  n:.ht  hand  and  to  the  left.  I  gave  when  I  was  asked ; 
I  promised  when  1  could  not  give.  I  was  a  true  Vivian.  That 
•was  my  disposition;  it  continued  mine  till  I  was  twelve  years 
old.  Then  came  a  change ;  how  or  when  it  dawned  upon  me 
I  cannot  say;   but  there   is   an   atmosphere  in   every  bonie, 


348  CLEVE    IIAI.L. 

wliicli  wo  breathe  insensibly;  the  atnios])here  of  mix  c  wag 
care — carkinj::,  harassiiii;,  luworiiiii;  care.  It  cro])t  into  my 
heart,  and  dulled  my  spirits;  it  made  me  fearful  and  d()n])tfu) 
towards  those  with  whom  I  ouiiht  to  have  been  open  as  the 
day.  It  pressed  upon  me  heavily,  and  more  heavily;  and  it 
pressed  upon  others  also.  I  saw  it  in  the  countenances  of  the 
old  servants ;  I  heard  it  in  the  murmurs  of  my  father's  ten- 
ants; I  read  it  written  on  the  broken-down  fences,  and  the 
walls  fallinfj^  to  decay.  We  were  a  family  on  the  verge  of 
ruin  ;  and  in  strivino;  to  keep  ourselves  from  degradation,  wo 
brought  hardship  and  exaction  upon  those  of  whom  we  ought 
to  have  been  the  protectors.  The  name  of  Vivian,  once  honor- 
ed, was  now  execrated.  I  was  but  a  boy,  Mildred,  when  first 
I  realized  to  myself  the  true  position  in  which  I  stood;  and  it 
may  seem  strange  that  I  should  have  allowed  the  fact  to  weigh 
with  me ;  it  may  appear  more  natural  that  I  should  Inve  cast 
it  away  with  a  boy's  thoughtlessness.  ]Jut  it  did  i.ifluence 
rue;  it  tinged  my  visions  for  the  future;  it  sliaped  my  plans; 
and  at  last  it  gave  me  a  definite  object  for  which  to  work.  I 
stood,  one  day,  at  the  head  of  my  class  at  school,  and  the 
murmur  went  on  ai'ound  me,  among  the  masters,  that  I  was 
capable  of  a  great  work  ;  that  whatever  I  set  my  heart  upon 
I  must  attain.  They  spoke,  I  knew,  of  worldly  distinctions; 
but  I  read  their  words  diiferently.  Distinction  was  mine  by 
right  of  inlieritance,  for  the  Vivians,  even  before  they  came 
to  Cleve,  had  been  the  lords  and  leaders  of  others  for  centu- 
ries ;  but  it  would  never  be  mine  in  possession,  unless  I  re- 
trieved the  follies  of  the  last  generation.  My  heart  swelled 
within  me,  and  in  secret  I  vowed  that,  from  that  hour  I  would 
toil  without  complaining,  and  suffer  without  repining,  until 
once  more  I  could  f^ice  the  world,  a  Vivian  of  the  olden  times, 
with  my  honor  untainted,  free  to  devote  myself  to  the  people 
amongst  whom  I  lived,  and  regarded  by  them,  not  as  an  op- 
pressive landlord,  exacting  to  the  last  penny,  but  as  a  master 
and  a  father,  living  otdy  for  their  happiness.  There  is  no 
need  now,  Mildred,  to  tell  you  how  my  vow  was  accomplished. 
A  mission  was  given  me,  and  I  fulfilled  it;  let  those  who  know 
lue  best  say  how.  ]>ut  do  you  think  that,  after  the  labor  of 
those  many  years, — the  self-denial  of  a  life, — I  am  now  to  be 
persuaded  to  throw  myself  and  ray  people  into  hands  whicli 
will,  which  must,  undo  my  work  ?  Is  the  man  who  could  act 
as — as  your  brother  acted — fit  to  be  intrusted  with  the  happi- 
ness of  others?     Is  his  boy,  is  Clement,  likely  to  be  such  a 


CLEVE    HALL.  349 

successor  as  I  should  desire  for  the  accomplishment  of  the 
work  for  which  I  have  lived  ?  Put  aside  incliuatiou,  Mildred, 
put  aside  prejudice,  and  answer  me  fairly  :  my  honor  and  the 
happiness  of  my  people  are  at  stake; — can  I  be  justified  in 
sacrificing  them  to  the  weak  instinct  of  affection  ?" 

"  My  dear,  dear  ftither,  don't  ask  me.  I  cannot  put  aside 
prejudice, — if  it  be  prejudice;  it  is  impossible."  Her  arm 
was  fluno:  around  his  neck,  and  she  rested  her  head  on  hia 
shoulder.  ''  Let  him  be  as  he  is — disinherited — yet  let  him 
return." 

"  Madness  !  Mildred,  madness  !"  He  almost  shook  her  from 
l.in,  as  he  sat  more  uprisjht,  and  every  limb  seemed  to  become 
stiff  with  the  effort  at  self-restraint. 

"  My  father,  not  madness — but  mercy;"  and  she  clung  to 
him  so  that  he  could  not  release  himself. 

"  Leave  me,  Mildred ;  let  me  go."  With  a  great  effort 
he  withdrew  himself  from  her,  and  rose,  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  fire-place,  looking  fixedly  at  her ;  but  Mildred  saw 
him  not,  for  her  head  was  buried  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair, 
and  her  sobs  came  fast  and  bitterly. 

He  spoke  again,  seeking  to  excuse  himself: — "  Your  fancy 
is  a  woman's  weakness,  Mildred.  Were  it  good  for  me,  it 
would  be  misery  for  him." 

Something  in  the  tone  struck  her  as  relenting,  and  she 
raised  her  head,  and  dashed  away  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 
"  Misery  !  oh,  never  !  it  is  his  one  last  hope." 

G-eneral  Vivian  crossed  his  arms  on  his  breast  and  made  no 
answer. 

Mildred's  voice  was  heard  again,  clear  and  slow  : — ''Mercy 
for  him,  father,  even  as  you  would  find  mercy  yourself." 

"  It  cannot  be.  To  live  with  me  as  my  son,  and  not  my  heii 
— Mildred,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  asking." 

"  Perhaps  not  to  live  with  you,  but  to  see  you,  if  but  for 
once  only,  to  hear  that  he  is  forgiven.  It  is  for  you  and  me, 
and  the  sight  of  his  home,  he  yearns." 

"Lost  thrcugh  his  own  fault."  And  silence  fell  again 
upon  the  darkened  chamber;  and  the  flickering  gleam  of 
the  dying  fire  showed  the  General  standing  in  his  place, 
immovable,  and  Mildred's  slight  figure  rigid  as  if  carved  in 
stone. 

Yet  once  more  she  spoke,  and  the  tone  was  that  hollow 
whisper  which  speaJcs  the  agony  of  a  broken  heart : — "  Father, 
]iardon  him,  and  see  him,  he  is  now  in  England." 


350  CLEVE    HALL. 

A  stranpcc  f^urjiling,  convulsive  sound  struck  upon  the 
car!  Goucral  Vivian  .staggered  to  a  chair,  and  sank  back 
Bensclcss. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


'^y)RRTIIA,  how  kite  you  are;  and  where  have  yoii  left 
\j  Clement  ?"  IMrs.  Campbell,  having  enjoyed  her  after- 
noon's siesta,  and  then  worked  whilst  there  was  light  remain- 
ing, had  begun  to  feel  impatient  for  the  return  of  the  pf^ty, 
who  had  been  wandering  over  the  hills. 

"  I  can't  say,  exactly,"  was  Bertha's  reply.  "  lie  was 
with  us  just  as  we  came  ofif  the  hills;  but  he  will  be  here  pre- 
sently, I  dare  say." 

"  He  stayed  behind  witb  me  first/'  said  Louisa ;  "  and  then 
he  clambered  up  the  bank  to  get  a  stone,  which  I  thought 
was  a  fossil.  He  was  so  long  finding  it,  that  I  didn't  like  to 
wait  for  him." 

"  If  he  doesn't  come  in  time  we  can't  have  tea  kept  for 
him,"  observed  jMrs.  Campbell.  ''  I  have  no  notion  of  every 
one's  being  put  out  for  a  boy  of  his  age." 

"  It  is  not  tea-time  yet,"  said  Bertha.  "  Louisa  and  Fanny, 
you  have  your  history  to  read  for  to-morrow;  you  had  better 
fetch  it." 

''  Poor  little  dears  !  after  their  long  walk  !  I  am  sure  they 
can't  possibly  read  history.  You  must  let  them  off,  Bertha. 
Take  off  your  things,  my  dears,  and  then  come  down  and  warm 
yourselves,  and  tell  me  all  you  have  been  doing." 

"  There  is  not  much  to  tell,"  observed  Bertha,  in  an  un- 
comfortable tone,  which  was  the  only  safety-valve  she  allowed 
herself,  when  interfered  with;  "we  only  went  to  Barney 
Wood's  cottage." 

"But  you  took  liim  his  coat,  didn't  you?  You  always 
take  him  something." 

"  The  coat  wasn't  quite  finished,"  said  Bertha.  "  Rachel 
had  been  busy  writing  to  her  father." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Lester  is  not  coming  home,  then.  Betsy  told 
me  that,  and  she  heard  it  from  Anne." 

"  They  are  both  great  gossips,"  observed  Bertha,  quickly 


CLEVE   HALL.  351 

*'  I  dou't  tliluk  anytliing  is  settled  as  to  Mr.  Lester's  return. 
Kachel  ouly  wrote  iu  case  he  might  not  come." 

Her  manner  fretted  Mrs.  Campbell,  ajid,  being  inclined  to 
complain,  she  returned  to  Clement : — '^  Where  do  you  say  you 
left  him,  Bertha  ?  You  ought  not  to  have  left  him  ;  there  are 
a  great  many  bad  people  about  j  no  one  knows  what  mischief 
he  may  be  led  into." 

"  A  boy  of  his  age  must  learn  to  keep  himself  out  of  mis- 
chief," said  Bertha,  rather  proudly.  But  though  she  spoke 
with  seeming  unconcern,  she  looked  out  of  the  window  to  see 
if  he  was  coming. 

"  I  am  glad  he  has  given  up  being  with  Ronald,"  observed 
INIrs.  Campbell,  "  now  that  we  know  what  a  mess  Captain 
Vivian  is  likely  to  get  into." 

"  Is  there  anything  new  about  Captain  Vivian  ?  anything 
particular  ?"  asked  Bertha,  with  quick  interest. 

"  Betsy  tells  me  that  the  Preventive  officers  are  not 
going  to  be  outwitted  any  longer;  and  they  vow  they  will 
search  the  Grange  from  the  gax-ret  to  the  cellar,"  said  jMrs. 
Campbell. 

"  And  very  much  they  will  find  there  !"  said  Bertha.  "  If 
they  mean  to  do  anything,  they  .should  not  let  Betsy  know  it." 

"  She  can't  help  knowing  it;  it's  talked  of  everywhere," 
continued  Mrs.  Campbell;  "and  what's  moi'e,  Betsy  has  a 
brother  .somehow  mixed  up  with  them." 

"■  Poor  girl !  that  is  trouble  enough,"  said  Bertha,  thought- 
fully. 

"  She  asked  me  to  let  her  go  out  and  see  him,"  continued 
Mrs.  Campbell ;  "and  I  said  she  might,  if  she  was  in  time; 
so  she  went  about  four  o'clock." 

Bertha  was  too  much  occupied  with  painful  thoughts  of  her 
own,  to  take  any  particular  notice  of  this  piece  of  information ; 
and  jNIrs.  Campbell  continued  : — 

"  Betsy  thinks  there's  something  going  on  now.  Mark 
Wood  had  come  for  her  brother,  and  had  taken  him  out  with 
him,  so  that  she  couldn't  see  him.  She  takes  it  to  heart  a 
good  deal.  I  think,  Bertha,  you  might  just  as  well  sec  her 
presently,  and  find  out  what  she  is  afraid  of." 

"  Perhaps  the  less  we  know  about  such  matters  the  better," 
replied  Bertha,  looking  again  out  of  the  window.  "  If  Mark 
Wood  has  been  in  Encombe,"  she  added,  with  an  air  of  con- 
sideration, "  it  must  have  been  after  we  saw  him  going  down 
the  Gorge." 


6:)'I  CLEVE   HA/.L. 

"  lie  and  Steplicn  Hale  /lad  left  Betsy's  cottage  jiist  ten 
uiiimtes  before  she  got  there,"  continued  Mrs.  Campbell,  evi- 
dently pleased  at  having  something  to  talk  about,  Avhii-h 
seemed  to  draw  Bertha's  attention.  "  Betsy  was  told  tiiey 
went  off  towards  the  Point;  it  is  the  place  they  all  goto. 
There  is  a  cave,  or  some  such  place,  I  believe,  where  they 
meet." 

"  Not  a  very  convenient  rendezvous,"  replied  Bertha;  "  it 
must  be  so  difficult  to  reach.  But  it  must  be  all  talk  about 
anything  particular  going  on  now ;  if  there  were,  they  would 
never  let  it  out  in  that  way." 

"I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  replied  Mrs.  Cam])bcll;  ''at 
any  rate,  it  is  high  time  that  something  should  be  done.  The 
village  is  getting  into  a  sad  state.  Betsy  says  her  brother  is 
quite  a  different  person  since  he  mixed  himself  up  with  the 
smuggling.  I  can't  think,  for  my  part,  what  Mr.  Lester  can 
be  doing  to  let  things  go  on  as  they  do.  He  calls  himself  a 
good  parish  priest ;  I  know  his  parish  is  the  worst  iu  the 
county.'^ 

Any  suggestion  to  iMr.  Lester's  disadvantage  was  felt  as  a 
personal  incivility  by  Bertha,  and  she  immediately  began  siiy- 
ilig,  that  no  one  could  be  better  aware  than  Mr.  Lester  him- 
self of  the  bad  state  of  his  people,  or  do  more  to  remedy  the 
evil;  but  whilst  things  were  carried  with  such  a  high  hand  by 
those  who  ought  to  set  a  good  example,  there  was  little  hope 
of  amendment.  Whilst  Captain  Vivian  remained  at  Eucombe, 
it  must  and  wovxld  be  a  disreputable  place. 

"  Well,  then,  he  will  be  taken  from  it  soon,  we  may  hope," 
replied  Mrs.  Campbell,  rather  triumphantly.  "  Betsy  has  a 
cousin  in  the  Preventive  service,  so  she  hears  both  sides ;  and 
she  tells  me  that  they  vow  they  will  have  the  smugglers  iu 
their  power  before  the  new  year  begins;  that  is  what  makes 
her  so  afraid  for  her  brother." 

"  They  must  be  quick  about  it,  then,"  said  Bertha.  "  It 
wants  but  a  very  short  time  to  the  new  year." 

"  We  shall  see  something  before  it  comes,"  said  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell, oracularly ;  and  Bertha  echoed  the  words  in  her  own 
it-ind,  though  with  a  different  meaning.  Mrs.  Campbell  re- 
lapsing into  silence,  she  took  the  opportunity  of  leaving  the 
room,  and  going,  not  up  stairs  to  take  off  her  things,  but  into 
the  garden  and  the  lane,  to  look  for  Clement. 

Bertha  went  a  little  way  down  the  lane  without  meeting 
any  one;    then,   hearing  some   persons   appi'oaching,   talking 


CLEVE    HALL.  353 

noisily,  she  turned  into  a  by-path,  by  a  cottage  garden,  and 
stood  there  till  they  had  passed.  The  voices,  which  she  rc- 
coiTuised,  made  her  very  glad  that  she  had  avoided  the  meet- 
ing. Mark  Wood,  Stephen  Hale,  and  Goif,  were  together, 
apparently  disputing.  Bertha  watched  them  till  they  were 
nearly  out  of  sight, — if  sight  that  could  be  called  which  was 
only  the  indistinct  perception  of  twilight, — and,  even  when 
they  were  gone,  felt  unwilling  to  move  from  her  hiding-place, 
lest  they  should  return.  jS^ot  that  she  had  any  cause  to  fear, 
— it  was  unlikely  that  they  would  notice,  still  less  speak  to 
her  J  but  the  rough  voices,  and  the  very  distant  possibility  of 
being  brought  in  contact  with  them,  made  her  shrink  into 
herself.  She  waited  what  seemed  a  long  time, — though  in 
fact  it  was  only  a  few  minutes, — then,  scolding  herself  for  folly, 
ventured  back  into  the  lane,  and  had  gone  some  little  distance, 
when  once  more,  as  she  had  dreaded,  the  voices  were  heard, 
and  very  near.  The  men  had  taken  a  short  cut,  and  were 
returning.  Bertha  did  not  like  to  run  back,  that  would 
attract  notice ;  still  less  did  she  wish  to  proceed.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  stood  irresolute ;  but  the  sound  of  a  footstep  behind 
gave  her  confidence,  especially  when,  on  looking  round,  she 
recognised  Ronald.  His  finger  was  raised  to  his  lips,  as  a  tign 
for  silence,  and  without  noticing  her,  he  turned  shortly,  strode 
down  the  lane  at  a  rapid  pace,  and  entered  the  path  which 
Bertha  had  just  left. 

Bertha  was  surprised,  yet  her  momentary  I'eeling  of  fear 
was  over.  She  felt  that  a  protector  was  near;  and  went  on 
boldly,  smiling  at  her  own  weakness,  as  the  men  lowered  their 
voices  when  she  passed,  IMark  Wood  and  Stephen  Hale  even 
touching  their  hats. 

Five  minutes  afterwards,  as  she  stood  at  the  Lodge  gate, 
lionald  joined  her ;  his  voice  was  agitated,  and  he  began  with- 
out apology  or  explanation.  "  Clement  is  with  you,  Misa 
Campbell,  of  course." 

"  No,  not  yet !     I  expect  him." 

"  Not  with  you?     When  did  you  leave  him?" 

'•'Jle  left  just  as  we  entered  the  village;  he  stayed  be- 
hind." 

"  Behind  ?     Alone  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  is,  Louisa  was  with  him  ;  but  she  came  bacli 
to  us.     What  is  the  matter,  Roland  ?" 

"  Nothing      Have  you  been  long  returned?" 


354  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  Not  very ;  we  were  all  late.  For  pity's  sake,  Ronald, 
tell  me  what  this  means  ?" 

"  I  thought  Clement  might  he  with  GoflF.  I  knew  he  was 
loitering  ahout  the  cottage,  and  I  watched  after  you  were 
gone,  but  could  not  see  him  at  first;  I  did  aftei-wards.  He 
followed  the  path  you  took,  and  I  followed,  too,  some  distance. 
Then " 

''Well!  what  then?" 

"  I  met  my  father ;  he  sent  me  back  to  the  cottage  on  a 
message ;  and  I  lost  sight  of  you  all.  Good-night," — he 
broke  off  abruptly;  ''I  will  look  for  Clement;"  and  he  hur- 
ried aAvay. 

His  coiirse  was  rapid  and  intricate.  He  knew  all  the  by- 
lanes  and  short  cuts  of  the  village,  and  every  cottage  garden 
was  open  to  him  as  to  a  friend ;  and  so,  with  almost  a  direct 
course,  he  made  his  way  to  the  Grange,  noticed  only  by  a  few 
stragglers  returning  late  from  work,  who,  recognising  his  step, 
greeted  him  with  a  laugh  and,  "  How  are  ye.  Master  Ronald  T' 
but  not  troubling  themselves  as  to  his  wandering  movements, 
and  scarcely  even  making  a  remark  upon  his  evident  haste. 

The  shrubbery  gate  of  the  Grange  was  wide  open,  and  the 
large,  lonely  house  was  silent  and  dreary  in  the  glimmering 
twilight,  neither  fire  nor  candle  to  be  seen  through  the  uncur- 
tained windows  of  the  deserted  apartments;  and  when  Ronald 
entered,  his  footsteps  sent  a  hollow  echo  through  the  long 
stone  passages.  He  went  first  to  the  parlor,  which  was  empty; 
but  the  cloth  was  laid  for  dinner,  and  the  shutters  were  closed. 
A  rough,  club  stick  lay  on  the  table,  and  a  glove  was  on  the 
floor.  Ronald,  without  any  particular  thought,  picked  up  the 
glove  and  laid  it  down  carelessly,  whilst  he  stood  for  a  few 
moments  thinking  whether  to  remain  for  his  father  or  return 
to  the  Lodge  to  satisfy  his  mind  about  Clement.  An  uncom- 
fortable misgiving  Avas  still  haunting  him.  Barney's  imper- 
fect hints  of  a  mystery  returned  to  him,  and  with  it  came  the 
impulse  to  go  at  once  to  the  Point  and  watch  whether  any- 
thing more  than  xisual  was  going  on  there.  But  the  evening 
was  growing  darker  and  darker,  and  the  moon  would  not  be 
risen  for  another  hour;  he  could  see  nothing,  even  if  he  were 
to  go;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  if  any  mischief  were  afloat  it 
would  most  probably  be  something  which  would  bring  Clement 
to  the  Grange.  Just  at  that  moment  Ronald's  eye  fell  upon 
the  glove,  a  rough  winter  glove — too  small,  surely,  for  Captain 
Vivian's  hand.     He  tried  to  put  it  on;  it  was  too  small  foi 


CLEYE    HALL.  355 

himself;  it  must  be  Clement's,  left  thei'e  probably  the  previ- 
ous night  he  had  been  there.  But  no,  Ronald  recollected  now 
that  he  had  seen  Clement  wearing  it  that  very  day,  and  had 
thought  at  the  time  that  he  would  try  and  2ii'ocure  a  pair  of 
the  same  kind  for  Barney. 

lie  rushed  out  of  the  room ;  but  still,  habitually  cautious, 
controlled  his  eager  step  as  he  passed  through  the  hall  and  the 
back  passages,  and  softened  his  voice  when  he  encountered  the 
solitary  domestic,  of  whom  he  inquired  wdiethcr  his  father  had 
returned  to  the  Grange  within  the  last  hour. 

It  might  or  it  mightn't  be  an  hour,  the  woman  couldn't 
say,  but  the  Captain  had  been  in  and  put  off  dinner; — and 
she  walked  away,  sulky  from  the  additional  trouble. 

''  Stop,  Madge  !  can't  you  !     Was  my  father  alone  ?" 

"Who's  to  say,  Master  Ronald?  not  I.  D'ye  think  I 
(showed  my  nose  in  the  parlor?" 

"  But  you  may  have  heard.  Was  he  speaking  to  any  one  ? 
Did  he  seem  as  if  he  was  alone  V 

"  Seem  ?  Why  he  was  alone  when  I  saw  him.  What 
should  you  keep  me  here  talking  such  daft  folly  for?" — and 
jMadge  retired  within  the  precincts  of  her  own  domain,  and 
closed  the  kitchen  door  violently,  as  a  hint  to  Ronald,  that  he 
was  on  no  account  to  follow. 

Ronald  opened  the  hall  door,  and  went  out  into  the  gravel 
sweep,  and  listened ;  and  he  heard  the  distant  trampling  of  a 
horse's  hoofs,  and  the  cry  of  a  sick  child,  in  a  cottage  occupied 
by  one  of  the  farm  laborers.  But  the  wailing  wind  drowned 
all  other  sounds,  save  that  which  mingled  with  and  deepened 
it — the  hoarse  rush  of  the  waves  beating  against  the  precipi- 
tous cliffs. 

For  several  minutes  he  stood  there,  his  face  turned  to- 
wards Dark  Head  Point.  A  rising  mist  had  now  obstructed 
even  the  faint  gleam  of  lingering  da}' ;  but  twice  Ronald  fan- 
cied he  saw  a  light  gleaming  in  that  direction,  though  so  far 
off  that  he  knew  it  must  be  from  a  vessel  at  sea;  and  then, 
again,  there  seemed  another  moving,  and  higher  up,  upon  the 
cliff;  but  the  mist  gathered  over  again,  more  thickly,  ajid  all 
waff  obscure. 

Some  one  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  with  a  heavy  hand. 
"What,  Ronald,  my  lad,  watching?  what's  that  for?'' 

"  For  you,  father;  1  wondered  where  you  were." 

''No   cause   for  wonder,  1  should    think;    I'm   out  often 


obb  CLEVE   HALL. 

enou^li  iiKui}-  hours  later  than  this.  But^  come,  let's  ill  tc 
diuuer." 

Captain  Vivian  hurried  on;  and  when  Ronald  would  have, 
linijered  to  watch  the  liiiht  on  the  cliti",  he  called  to  hiui  im- 
patiently, saying  that  they  had  both  waited  long  enough,  and 
he  was  ravenous.  Yet  llonald  did  linger,  for  some  seconds, 
and  when  his  lather  had  entered  the  house,  he  stood  fbr  seve- 
ral moments  on  the  step  of  the  door  with  a  longing,  which  he 
could  scarcely  resist,  to  brave  Captain  Vivian's  displeasure, 
and  run  back  to  the  Lodge,  to  gain  some  tidings  of  Clement. 

"  llonald,  where  are  you  ?  Come  in,  I  say.  I  won't  have 
that  wind  through  the  house;  shut  the  door,  and  come  in." 

And  llonald  obeyed  mechanically. 

I'hey  sat  down  to  dinner.  Captain  Vivian  talked  more 
than  was  his  wont,  llonald  gave  but  short  answers.  He  was 
considering  in  his  own  mind,  whether  it  would  be  wise  to 
mention  Clement's  name,  and  ask  how  his  glove  had  been 
found  there.  Nothing  in  any  way,  however,  led  to  the  sub- 
ject. Captain  Vivian's  conversation  was  confined  to  discus- 
sions upon  the  superiority  of  the  little  smuggling  vessel  over 
the  regular  traders  upon  the  coast,  and  anecdotes  of  the  won- 
derfully short  voyages  she  had  lately  made.  Once,  llonald 
mentioned  Barney  Wood,  and  made  a  remark  upon  Mr.  Lester 
and  Miss  Campbell's  kindness ;  but  it  was  badly  received, 
Captain  Vivian  turned  it  off  with  a  sneer,  and  went  on  as  be- 
fore, somewhat  incoherently  and  unconnectcdly — his  words 
uttered  very  ftist,  his  tone  half  jocular,  half  hasty.  llonald 
could  not  think,  he  could  oidy  listen  and  reply. 

A  loud  peal  at  the  Hall  bell !  Captain  Vivian  went  him- 
self to  answer  it ;  llonald  also  followed  a  few  paces  behind. 
A  message  from  the  Lodge  was  brought  by  jMr.  Lester's  gar- 
dener. "  Mrs.  Campbell's  compliments,  and  sbe  would  bo 
glad  to  know  if  Master  Clement  was  at  the  Grange." 

Captain  Vivian  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  almost  shut 
the  door  in  the  man's  face.  "  Master  Clement  here?  What 
lolly  will  be  asked  next?  My  compliments  to  Mrs.  Campbell, 
and  Master  Clement  doesn't  trouble  me  much  with  his  com- 
pany. She  must  look  for  him  elsewhere.  What,  Eonald  !" 
he  grasped  his  son's  shoiddcr,  as  llonald  was  going  to  re-open 
the  door;  "rushing  after? -what  for?  Do  you  think  tlic 
tender  chicken's  lost  ?" 

"  He  has  been  here.  I  know  it;  I  have  a  proof."  llonald 
tossed  Clement's  glove  upon  the  flooi*. 


CLEVE    UALL.  357 

Captain  Viviau  kicked  it  from  liim ;  his  face  was  livid  either 
with  anger  or  fear  : — "  Clement  was  here.  He  is  gone  home, 
or  he  ouoht  to  be.  Now,  back  to  dinner,  and  no  more  of  this 
foil  J." 

He  led  the  wa}^  to  the  parlor ;  Ronald  followed  moodily. 
]>oth  sat  down  tothe  table,  but  only  Captain  Vivian  talked. 
He  had  apparently  repented  his  hasty  show  of  authority,  and 
tried  to  bring  llonald  round,  pressing  him  to  eat,  urging  him 
to  take  wine,  joking  him  about  his  books;  but  Ronald  still  sat 
with  his  abstracted  gaze,  listening  for  distant  sounds,  and  giv- 
ing only  such  short  answers  as  were  absolutely  necessary.  Irri- 
tated by  his  total  absence  of  interest.  Captain  Vivian  began  in 
another  strain : — "  So,  Ronald,  you  mean  to  show  yourself  a 
pleasant  companion,  to  leave  the  conversation  in  my  hands; 
I  thank  you  for  it ;  it  is  all,  of  course,  I  have  a  right  to  expect 
from  my  only  child.  Yet  I  might  have  thought  that  so  much 
woman's  teaching  might  have  given  you  a  touch  of  good  man- 
ners. Bertha  Campbell  sets  up  for  a  lady,  but  it's  little  enough 
of  a  gentleman  that  you  have  shown  yourself  since  she  set  foot 
in  Encombe.  Don't  think  I  am  surprised,  though  ;  it's  the  old 
grudge,  malice  carried  on  for  a  dozen  years — cunningly,  too, 
setting  my  son  against  me.'^ 

Ronald  had  given  his  full  attention  to  this  last  speech,  but 
he  could  not  answer  it.  Had  not  Bertha  Campbell,  though 
unintentionally,  been  the  means  of  embittering  the  feelings 
which,  even  "before,  were  but  too  acutely  conscious  of  his 
father's  faults  ? 

Captain  Vivian  went  on  more  painfully,  because  with  less 
of  sarcasm  : — "  I  am  not  what  many  fathers  are,  I  know  that. 
I'm  not  the  man  to  set  up  for  a  Squire,  and  make  a  fuss  about 
my  boy,  and  put  him  in  the  way  of  fine  people.  It  never  was 
my  way,  and  it  never  will  be.  I  was  brought  up  roughly,  my- 
self, and  I've  led  a  rough  life,  and  it's  too  late  now  to  mend  it; 
and  what  I  am  my  son  must  be.  But  I  should  never  have 
thought  that  for  that  reason  he  was  to  be  made  to  turn  against 
me,  to  plut  with  my  enemies." 

"  Plot  with  them  ?     Oh  !  father,  how  little  you  know  !"^ 

"  Ay  1  plot  with  them,"  continued  Captain  Vivian.  "  You 
dun't  think,  do  you,  that  I'm  so  blind  as  not  to  have  an  eye  for 
what's  going  on  close  at  my  door?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  refer  to.  Father,"  replied  Ronald. 

''  Pi-obably  not !  You  would  be  the  last  person  to  own,  if 
you  did." 


Oo8  CLEVE    HALL. 

Captain  Vivian's  manner  was  proud  and  coldly  dctcnuiiK-d 
It  might  have  been  the  manner  of  his  early  days,  never  entirely 
forgotten ;  and  it  struck  a  chill,  and  something  of  a  feeling  of 
awe,  into  Ronald's  heart.  It  was  as  if,  after  all,  there  was 
something  better  left  than  that  low  recklessness,  which  had  of 
late  been  his  chief  characteristic. 

Ronald  answered  more  quietly,  and  even  respectfully :  "  If 
you  are  suspicious  of  me,  Father,  and  will  tell  me  your  suspi- 
cions, I  will  try  to  remove  them." 

"  What !  how  ?"  Captain  Vivian  started  up  and  went  to 
the  door  looking  out  into  the  hall :  "  Folly;  it's  only  the  old 
woman's  tramp." 

lie  came  back  again,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire  : 
"  Suspicions  you  were  talking  of,  Ronald  :  what  would  you  give 
to  hear  them  ?" 

"  A  great  <leal,  Father,  if  I  could  make  you  believe  they 
are  unfounded." 

'*  Well,  then  !" — a  pause — a  second  commencement,  and  a 
second  pause — at  last  the  words  came  with  thundering 
emphasis  :  "  Suspicions  that  I  have  a  traitor  in  my  camp,  who 
would  desert  me  at  the  last  gasp  !" 

Ronald  pushed  aside  his  plate,  and  rising,  paced  the  room 
in  a  tumult  of  excitement. 

Captain  Vivian  went  on  coldly  :  "  What  is  the  care  for  this 
miserable  boy,  Clement  Vivian  ?  What  is  the  devotion  to 
Bertha  Campbell,  and  the  obedience  to  Mr.  Lester  ? — treachery, 
treachery  from  the  beginning  to  the  end." 

"  Are  they  your  enemies,  Father  ?"  Ronald's  voice  was 
husky  with  agitation,  for  his  promise  to  Bertha  was  present  to 
his  mind,  and  even  now  it  seemed  he  might  be  called  to  fulfil  it. 

''Circumstances  made  them  my  enemies,"  was  the  reply j 
"  that's  enough  for  you  to  know." 

"  Then  Clement  is  your  enemy  for  his  fiither's  sake  ?" 

Captain  Vivian  answered  cautiously :  "  Such  a  Doy  as  that 
my  enemy  !  he  is  beneath  me." 

"  Yet" — Ronald  hesitated — "  through  him  you  might  work 
harm  to  his  father." 

"  Who  tells  you  that  ?"  and  Captain  Vivian  turned  upon 
him  fiercely. 

"  My  own  reason  partly,"  replied  Ronald  ;  and,  summoning 
more  courage,  he  added :  "  I  know  through  jNIiss  Campbell 
that  you  have,  as  you  yourself  say,  cause  for  mutual  -enmitj." 


CLEVE   HALL.  '  359 

"  Ila  !  the  family  secrets  !  And  pray  what  may  Miss  Camp- 
bell have  thought  proper  to  confide  to  yoxi  ?" 

"  She  has  given  me  warnings  rather  than  confidence — warn- 
ings, Father,  which  I  would  fain  give  to  you." 

"lam  obliged  to  her;"  Captain  Vivian's  face  showed  a 
change  of  color.  "  Threats,  I  presume ;  a  notice  that  I  shall 
be  taken  up  for  a  smuggler,  as  they  call  me." 

*'  They  were  very  vague,  indirect  threats,"  replied  Ronald, 
in  an  unmoved  tone,  though  his  heart  beat  painfully;  "yet 
they  made  me  feel  that  danger  might  be  at  hand." 

"  Danger  at  hand,  and  you  not  tell  me  of  it — ungrateful 
boy!" 

Bitter  reproaches  followed,  which  llonald,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  heard,  yet  without  hearing,  for  still  his  thoughts 
reverted  to  Clement ;  and  the  words  fell  upon  his  ear,  as  they 
had  often  done  before,  almost  as  .sounds  without  meaning. 

Captain  Vivian  stopped  at  length,  and  then  in  a  calmer 
voice  insisted  upon  knowing  everything  which  Miss  Campbell 
had  dared  to  say.  Ronald  was  hesitating  for  a  reply,  when 
another  and  more  violent  ring  at  the  hall  door  a  second  time 
interrupted  the  conversation. 

This  time  Captain  Vivian  did  not  go  out  himself,  but  stood 
in  the  open  doorway ;  and  both  he  and  Ronald,  as  by  mutual 
consent,  paused  to  hearken. 

It  was  a  man's  voice  speaking,  and  angrily.  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell had  sent  another  message :  "  Master  Clement  had  been 
seen,  with  Captain  Vivian,  going  to  the  Grange.  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell desired  to  know  when  he  had  left  it,  and  what  direction 
he  had  taken." 

Ronald  turned  iipon  his  father  a  look  of  keen  distnist. 

Captain  Vivian's  countenance  did  not  alter.  He  went 
directly  to  the  door,  and  said  :  "  My  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Campbell.  Master  Clement  was  here  for  two  minutes,  and  I 
walked  with  him  a  little  way  down  Long  Lane,  but  he  turned 
off  at  the  end.     Is  she  uneasy  about  him  ?" 

"  He  hasn't  been  home  yet,  and  it's  past  eight,"  said  the 
man,  gruffly.  "  Mrs.  Campbell  said  she  was  sure  the  people 
at  the  Grange  knew  something  about  him." 

"Who  is  looking  for  him?"   inquired  Ronald,  anxiously. 
"  One  or  two  people  have  been  asked ;  but  vfo  have  been 
expecting  him  in  every  moment,  when  we  were  told  that  he 
Hasn't  here." 

"  We  will  g)  to  the  cliff,"  said  Ronald,  and  he  took  up  his 


oGO  CLEVE   HALL. 

hat,  and  stepped  into  the  porch.     To  his  surprise,  his  father 
made  no  atteui])t  to  stop  him. 

"  We  thought  he  might  have  been  with  Goff,  and  some  of 
his  men.  lie's  fond  of  getting  about  with  them,"  continued 
the  gardener,  nu)re  cordially;  "  but  Gott's  at  home,  and  doesn't 
know  anything  about  him." 

Captain  Vivian  came  out,  and  sto(»d  with  Ilonakl  in  the 
porcli :  "  You  may  tell  Mrs.  Campbell,  that  my  son  and  1  will 
go  down  to  the  shore,  and  make  inquiries,"  he  said. 

'*  Yes,  tell  her  we  will  go  in  every  direction,"  added 
Ronald,  eagerly;  "we  will  not  return  till  we  have  had  tidings 
of  him.  You  may  trust  me,  man,"  he  continued,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  arm  of  the  gardener,  as  he  lingered  with  an  evi 
dent  feeling  of  hesitation. 

The  light  from  a  little  oil  lamp  in  the  hall  fell  upon 
Ronald's  face;  it  bore  an  expression  which  could  not  bo 
doubted.  Captain  Vivian's  was  hidden  in  the  shade  of  the 
porch.  Ronald  repeated  again: — "You  may  trust  me,"  and 
the  words  were  received  with  a  hearty  "To  be  sure.  Master 
Ronald ;  every  one  trusts  you." 

The  man  departed  ;  and  Ronald  would  have  set  off  instantly 
for  Dark  Head  Point,  but  a  strong  hand  detained  him  :  "  You 
don't  escape  me,  my  lad,  in  this  way.  Every  word  that  Bertha 
Campbell  has  uttered  about  my  affairs  before  you  stir." 

"I  have  told  all,"  replied  Ronald;  "and  yet, — no,  I  have 
not  told  all.  She  has  said.  Father,  that  whatever  wrong  there 
might  be  between  JMr.  Vivian  and  yourself,  he  would  be  the 
last  to  press  it  against  you,  if  only  you  would  acknowledge  it, 
and  clear  him  in  the  General's  eyes." 

A  mocking  laugh  interrupted  him  :  "  A  woman's  folly ! 
And  you  believed  it  ?  Was  that  everything  ?  At  your  peril 
deceive  me." 

Ronald  paused, — in  the  tumult  of  his  mind,  he  could 
scarcely  tell  whether  he  was  at  liberty  to  betray  more  of  what 
had  passed ;  he  added,  with  hesitation,  "  She  warned  me  also 
that  it  might  soon  be  in  their  power  to  enforce  what  now  is 
only  a  request." 

Not  a  word  escaped  in  reply,  but  the  dim  thread  of  light 
from  the  little  lamp  showed  a  face  ghastly  with  conflicting 
passions ;  and  Captain  Vivian,  seizing  Ronald  by  the  arm, 
strode  forth  into  the  darkness. 


CLEVE   HALL.  3G] 


CHAPTER  XL. 


MORN  rose  gorgeously  over  tlie  sea;  an  atmospliei'e  of 
orange  light  seeming  to  penetrate  and  mingle  with  the 
long  line  of  gray  clouds,  which  stood  as  a  wall  against  the 
horizon,  and  here  and  there  breaking  through  it  in  a  crimson 
line,  until  at  length  the  full  burst  of  radiance  flooded  the 
eastern  sky,  and  shed  its  myriads  of  golden  sparkles  upon  the 
waters ;  not  resting  upon  them  with  the  long  and  lingering 
gaze  which  sunset  gives  to  the  world  its  brilliancy  has  glad- 
dened, but  lightly  playing  upon  the  surfiice  of  the  rippling 
ocean,  and  tracing  upon  it,  in  a  pale  yet  far-spread  glory,  the 
joyous  smile  of  the  opening  day. 

Ronald  Vivian  wandered  alone  upon  the  sandy  beach. 
Behind  him  were  the  red  cliffs,  and  the  dark  headland  worn 
by  the  fretting  of  the  sea,  hollowed  into  caves,  cut  into  pro- 
jections, and  in  parts  clothed  with  scanty  lichens;  before  him 
spread  the  interminable  expanse  of  ocean,  without  a  sail  to 
mark  its  distance.  Ronald's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  beach. 
He  would  have  appeared  deep  in  meditation,  for  the  water 
plashed  gently  against  the  rocks,  and  rippled  close  to  his  feet, 
and  still  he  seemed  unconscious  of  the  tide ;  whilst,  with  folded 
nrms  and  a  slow  and  weary  step,  he  walked  towards  the  jutting 
point  forming  the  western  extremity  of  Encombe  Bay.  Occa- 
sionally, however,  it  might  have  been  seen  that  he  was  not  so 
abstracted.  As  the  passing  breeze  brought  to  his  ear  what 
mi"ht  have  been  the  echo  of  a  school-boy's  shout,  or  the  morn- 
ing greeting  of  the  laborers  passing  to  their  work,  he  would 
pause  for  a  moment  and  listen,  and  then  glance  quickly  round, 
and  perhaps  stoop  to  examine  some  dark  object  at  his  feet — • 
a  stone,  or  a  knotted  mass  of  sea-weed  :  he  was  looking,  and 
watching,  and  searching  still,  but  it  was  not  the  search  of 
hope. 

Three  hours  of  that  night  had  Ronald  spent  in  fruitless, 
and,  in  a  great  degree,  irritating  inquiries.  His  father  had 
jeon  with  him,  allowing  liim  no  freedom,  stopping  every  ques- 
tion which  might  possibly  have  led  to  the  discovery  of  Clement's 
iioveinorits,  wnilst  pretending  the  warmest  interest  in  the  re- 
mit. ]lonald  Md  at  times  been  tempted  to  break  froni  him, 
win  ii'sist  upon  ca-rying  cmt  his  own  views  in  his  own  way; 
fnu  if  WMS  (lifTicnlt  to  resist  a  parent's  authority,  aiul  Captaia 


3G2  CLEVE    HALL. 

Vivian  had  always  .saiuc  plausible  reason  at  hanJ  lo  silence  liia 
remonstrances. 

Yet  he  was  kind  in  his  manner, — much  kinder  than  Ro- 
nald liad  supposed  possible,  when  they  left  the  house  topjether, 
after  Ronald  had  communicated  Bertha's  warnintz;.  A  muody 
silence  had  followed  for  some  little  time,  and  then  all  seemed 
passed  away  and  forgotten,  except  that  the  softness  which  suc- 
ceeded, carried  with  it  at  times  a  tone  of  mockery  more  galling 
than  reproaches. 

One  thing,  liowever,  was  quite  clear  to  Ronald — whatever 
might  be  concealed  under  Bertha's  hints,  they  had  worked 
upon  his  father  to  u  degree  which  gave  cause  to  think  they 
were  well  founded.  The  defiant,  self-reliant  manner  which 
had  been  Captain  Vivian's  characteristic  was  gone.  He  was 
fitful,  abstracted, — often  lost  in  thought,  only  fully  conscious, 
as  it  seemed,  of  one  fact,  that  he  must  not  lose  sight  of  Ronald ; 
and  when,  after  their  long  search,  they  had  returned  for  a  few 
hours'  rest  to  the  Grange,  it  was  with  a  promise  that  they 
should  go  again,  at  daybreak,  to  the  shore,  to  renew  their 
inquiries  together. 

This  was  now  Ronald's  purpose.  He  had  risen  very  early, 
disturbed  by  anxiety  and  foreboding.  But  his  father  was  gone 
before  him,  and  had  left  a  peremptory  message  in  writing  that 
he  was  to  join  him  directly  at  the  cave  under  Dark  Head 
Point ;  the  reason  given  for  the  order  being,  that  Captain  Vi- 
vian was  himself  going  to  the  shore,  as  the  most  likely  place 
to  hear  what  they  wished.  Ronald  felt  bound  to  obey,  yet  his 
step  unconsciously  lingei'ed  as  he  drew  near  the  place  appointed 
for  the  meeting.  Sleep  had  raised  a  barrier  of  years  between 
his  present  feelings  and  the  excitement  of  the  past  night.  He 
looked  back  upon  it,  in  a  degree,  as  men  look  upon  the  turmoil 
of  youth  from  the  dreary  waste  of  middle  life.  His  spirit  had 
been  roused  to  anger  then — now  he  was  only  saddened.  His 
thoughts  had  been  full  of  eager  excitement  for  Clement  then ; 
now  he  was  tempted  to  consider  his  absence  as  possibly  a  boy- 
ish freak.  Doubt  and  delay  were  wearing  his  spirits,  whilst 
exhausting  his  energy.  More  than  all, — then,  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  heart,  and  the  rush  of  his  fiery  temper,  he  had 
felt  able  to  cope  even  with  his  father,  and  dare  and  suffer  peril 
or  misery,  if  only  he  might  save  Clement,  and  redeem  the  evil 
which  had  been  wrought ;  now,  in  the  glad  light  of  morning, 
with  the  sights  and  sounds  of  daily  life  and  daily  toil  around 
Lim,  spirit,  and  heroism,  and  self-devotion  had  vanished,  and 


CLEVE    HALL.  3G3 

all  that  lie  could  feel  was  the  consciousness  of  his  father's 
de2;radatiou,  and  the  stain  of  disjjrace  which  had  not  even  the 
strength  of  passionate  feeling  and  impulse  to  enable  it  to  be 
endured. 

The  test  of  our  true  selves  is  to  be  found  in  the  morning 
resolution  and  the  morning  feeling ;  and  lionald  had  yet  to 
acquire  the  temper  of  mind  which  can  be  as  resolute  to  begin 
work,  without  previous  excitement,  as  to  pursue  it,  when  cir- 
cumstances both  moral  and  physical  have  aroused  the  imagina- 
tion, and  given  force  to  the  nervous  energies. 

Yet  tbit  quiet  walk  along  the  sea-shore  was  soothing  to 
him,  and  in  its  measure  supporting.  The  ocean  is  always 
great,  and  it  was  the  feeling  of  greatness  which  Ronald  needed. 
The  hard  beach,  furrowed  with  ridges,  spread  for  about  half 
a  mile  before  him,  crossed  at  times  by  little  streams,  tinged 
with  deep  yellow  from  the  iron-oi-e  of  the  rocks.  The  water 
in  some  places  was  deep  above  his  ankles;  yet  he  turned 
neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  but  went  on,  directing  his  course 
by  a  dark  spot  visible  at  the  height  of  about  one-third  of  the 
ciiff.  This,  on  a  nearer  approach,  was  seen  to  be  a  hollow, 
perhaps  the  opening  of  a  cave,  perhaps  only  a  cavity  formed 
by  the  mouldering  away  of  the  rocks.  There  were  many  such 
along  the  coast,  and  report  said  they  were  often  used  by  the 
smusglers  for  the  concealment  of  contraband  goods. 

the  cliif  at  this  point  projected  far  into  the  sea,  and  at 
high  tide  could  only  be  passed  with  difficulty,  by  scrambling 
over  the  huge  broken  rocks  which,  having  fallen  from  above, 
were  heaped  around  its  base.  Ronald,  however,  made  his  way 
over  them  with  the  ease  which  showed  that  every  stone  was  a 
familiar  resting-place,  and  paused  only  upon  the  summit  of 
one  of  the  highest  rocks,  when  a  glance  along  the  beach 
showed  that  no  one  was  in  view;  then  stepping  upon  the 
nearest  point  of  the  cliff,  a  few  bounds  brought  him,  slightly 
out  of  breath,  but  in  no  other  way  exhausted,  to  a  level  with 
the  opening,  which  was  now  seen  to  be  not  so  much  a  cave 
as  a  passage,  formed  partly  by  nature,  partly  by  the  hand  of 
man. 

It  was  carried  for  about  a  distance  of  twenty  feet  inwards, 
and  where  the  cliif  had  fallen  away,  it  had  been  built  up  l^y 
stones;  then  it  terminated  in  a  more  regular  cave,  remarkable 
only  for  being  a  clem-,  hollow  space,  capable  of  containing 
perhaps  a  dozen  men.  The  walls  were  smoothed  artificially, 
but  one  lai'ue  stone  had  been  left  at  the  further  end,  jirobably 


3G4  CLEVE    HALL. 

to  serve  as  a  seat.  The  place  was  evidently  used  for  tlic  pur- 
poses of  rest  or  concealment.  Some  burnt  sticks  showed  that 
a  fire  was  occasionally  lighted  in  it,  the  sinokc  escaping  through 
vent-holes  at  the  side ;  a  hammer  and  hatchet  lay  in  the  cor- 
ner, and  a  rough  wooden  bench,  and  small  deal  table,  gave  it 
some  appearance  of  a  human  habitation. 

It  was  empty,  however,  now ;  and  Ilonald,  throwing  him- 
self upon  the  ground,  rested  his  back  against  the  wall  of  sandy 
rock,  and  bending  his  head  forward,  so  as  to  catch  the  glimpse 
of  sea  discoverable  at  the  extremity  of  the  passage,  awaited  iu 
gloomy  meditation  his  father's  arrival. 

The  delay  was  not  long.  Five  minutes  had  scarcely  passed, 
when  a  long  shrill  whistle  from  below  gave  notice  of  an  ap- 
proach. Ilonald  answered  it,  but  without  moving  from  his 
resting-place;  and  not  till  his  father  appeared  in  sight,  ascend- 
ing the  cliff  by  what  was  something  of  a  regular  pathway,  did 
he  remove  his  gaze  from  the  fixed  point  in  the  far  horizon, 
upon  which  his  attention  seemed  to  have  been  concentrated. 

Then  he  rose  slowly,  and  went  forward  a  few  steps.  The 
greeting  was  abrupt  on  both  sides ;  yet  Captain  Vivian  ex- 
pressed himself  well  satisfied  with  llonald's  punctuality.  "  I 
should  have  been  here  myself  before,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of 
indiiference,  as  he  sat  down  upon  the  bench ;  "  but  there  were 
more  searchers  being  sent  out  for  this  young  scamp.  A  pretty 
game  he  has  played  us  \" 

He  raised  his  eyes  stealthily  to  llonald's  face,  as  he  spoke, 
seeking,  probably,  to  read  there  the  difference  between  his 
evening  and  his  morning  mind. 

Ilonald  replied,  that  if  searching  was  still  going  on,  he 
was  willing  to  take  his  part  as  before. 

"  That's  as  may  be.  I  don't  see  why  we  are  to  put  our- 
selves out  of  our  way  any  more  for  those  who,  if  the  opportu- 
nity came,  .would  do  us  an  ill  turn  as  soon  as  not.  The  boy's 
off,  and  let  those  look  after  him  who  have  driven  him  off." 

"  Driven  him  !"  repeated  Ilonald. 

"  What  else  has  done  it,  but  the  being  shut  up  with  books, 
and  tied  to  his  aunt's  apron  strings  ?  What  boy  of  any  spirit 
would  bear  it?     Not  you,  Ilonald,  I  am  sure." 

''  If  I  were  in  Clement's  place,  and  did  not  bear  it,  I  should 
be  to  blame,"  answered  Ronald. 

"  Eh  !  what?  But  it's  folly  even  to  name  you  two  in  the 
same  breath ;  even  Bertha  Campbell  would  own  that.  You 
have  seen  her,  I  suppose,  this  morning  ?" 


CLEVE    HALL.  3G5 

It  was  a  conciliatory  question,  but  Ronald's  answer  was 
cold:  "No;  I  came  here  direct,  as  you  had  appointed." 

"  Good ! — obedience  for  ever,  say  I.  It's  Mr.  Lester's 
lesson,  isn't  it,  Ronald  ?" 

"  Mr.  Lester  tells  me  I  am  bound  to  obey  you  in  all  things 
in  Arhich  I  lawfully  may,"  replied  Ronald. 

"  Good  again,"  repeated  Captain  Vivian.  He  rested  his 
elbows  upon  his  knees,  and  leaned  his  forehead  upon  his  hands. 
Presently  he  looked  up,  aud  said,  "  Lawfully — what  does  he 
mean  by  that,  Ronald  '(" 

''  I  understand,  though  I  mayn't  be  able  to  explain,"  re- 
plied Ronald. 

"  You  understand ;  that  won't  do  for  me ;  what  I  under- 
stand is  the  question.  It's  my  belief  that  Mr.  Lester  and  I 
have  different  views  upon  that  same  point  of  obedience.  Be- 
fore long  it  may  be  we  shall  test  them." 

"  I  am  willing,  I  hope,  Father,"  replied  Ronald,  "  to  show 
you  all  the  obedience  you  have  a  right  to  require;  but" — ho 
paused  for  a  second,  the  flash  of  his  father's  eye  startled  him 
— "  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  tbe  trial  carried  too  far.  Per- 
haps, though,  you  will  tell  me  without  delay  what  you  wish, 
for  you  do  wish  something." 

His  frankness  seemed  to  take  Captain  Vivian  by  surprise. 
He  hesitated,  stammered,  uttered  a  few  broken  words,  and  at 
length  laughed ;  but  it  was  a  dreary  skeleton  laugh — the  body 
without  the  soul ;  and  the  wind  bore  it  through  the  arched 
passage,  and  its  echo  died  away  in  the  faint  wailing  of  the 
breeze  which  murmured  over  the  sea. 

Ronald  spoke  again  :  "  I  thought  we  were  to  plan  another 
search ;  if  you  have  nothing  to  say,  we  ought  to  lose  no  time." 
He  moved  as  though  he  would  have  gone  out. 

"  Sit  down ;"  Captain  Vivian  touched  Ronald's  shoulder 
with  his  stick.     "  You  are  a  brave  boy,  Ronald ;  I  trust  you." 

"  I  hope  so.  Father.  I  don't  know  what  I  have  done  to 
cause  distrust." 

"  Y''es,  I  trust  you.  Y'^ou  wouldn't  go  against  your  father, 
Ronald." 

"  Never,  Father,  never;"  but  Ronald's  voice  was  faint,  for 
his  heart  beat  quickly. 

"  1  thought  not — I  knew  not ;  I  told  Goff  you  couldn't." 

"  Gofi!  Father,  do  you  consult  him  about  me  '(" 

"  I  didn't  consult,  we  talked  it  over.  He  doesn't  do  you 
justice,  Ronald." 


3GG  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  A  matter  of  very  little  consequence,"  was  llouald's 
answer. 

"  To  you,  perhaps, — not  so  to  me.  Ronald,  if  I  didn't 
trust  you" — lie  paused. 

"Well,  Father;  if  you  didn't  trust  me?" — Ronald  Ipoked 
at  Captain  Vivian  steadily,  and  the  gaze  which  he  encoun- 
tered sank. 

"If  I  didn't  trust  you,  I  couldn't  ask  you  to  help  mc  out 
of  a  difficulty." 

A  pang  of  doubt  shot  through  Ronald's  heart,  yet  still  he 
answered  quietly :  "  You  know  that  you  may  reckon  on  me  in 
all  things  in  which  there  is  no  breach  of  the  laws  of  God  and 
man." 

"  Umph !"  the  limitation  was  unsatisfactory.  Captain 
Vivian  considered  a  little.  "  Are  you  ready  for  a  long  story, 
Ronald  ?" 

So  steadily  was  the  question  uttered  that  tven  Ronald 
could  not  perceive  the  trace  of  any  inward  agitation. 

"  I  will  listen,"  was  all  he  could  say.  He  rested  against 
the  rock,  and  turned  his  face  from  his  father;  but  the  changed 
voice,  which  spoke  in  accents  low  and  deep,  made  him  look 
round  again. 

"  A  promise,  an  oath  never  to  betray,  that  must  be  ^iven 
first." 

"  A  son  may  be  trusted  without  an  oath,"  replied  Ronald. 

"  Not  so,  he  may  be  led  away." 

"  Never  to  betray  his  father  to  ruin." 

"  A  quibble !  an  unworthy  quibble !"  exclaimed  Captain 
Vivian. 

"  Yet  all  which  I  will  give,"  replied  Ronald. 

A  look  of  fierce  anger  crossed  Captain  Vivian's  face ;  yet 
there  was  less  real  indignation  in  the  softer  tone  in  which  he 
said,  "  Then  my  son  will  not  promise,  but  forsakes  me." 

"  Your  son  will  promise  to  do  nothing,  and  to  reveal  no- 
thing to  his  father's  injury." 

"  A  play  upon  words  ;  but" — Captain  Vivian  took  out  his 
watch — "  there  is  no  time  to  argue  the  point." 

"  No  arguments  would  alter  me.  If  I  am  worthy  to  re- 
ceive confidence  at  all,  I  am  worthy  to  receive  it  freely.  Father, 
if  this  is  all  you  have  to  say,  I  will  leave  you." 

"  Proud  boy  !  wilful  from  your  childhood.  But  you  must 
— you  shall  hear.  Betray  me,  and  a  father's  curse  will  be 
yours,  and  it  lights  surely  and  heavily." 


CLEVE   HALL.  367 

Ronald  shuddered,  but  lie  was  silent. 

Captain  Vivian  went  on  :  ''I  take  your  pi-oniise,  I  hold  it 
to  be  binding.  You  have  heard  Bertha  Campbell's  threats ; 
ycu  know  what  she  is  always  hinting  at,  aiming  at.  She  talks 
of  my  standing  between  the  General  and  Edward  Vivian ; — 
did  she  ever  explain  herself  more  clearly  ?" 

Ronald  felt  his  father's  eye  upon  him  as  he  answered, 
"She  told  me  Mr.  Vivian's  early  history  and  yours." 

"  She  told  it,  did  she  ?  In  her  own  way,  doubtless.  She 
said  nothing,  of  course,  of  deception,  treachery, — how  I  was 
led  on  to  believe  myself  secure — encouraged,  flattered,  befool- 
ed, triumphed  over ;  as  they  thought,"  he  added,  in  an  under 
tone;  "  but  I  had  my  revenge." 

"  She  told  me  that  you  were  led  away  by  false  hopes,"  re- 
plied Ronald. 

"  False  !  yes,  false  with  a  woman's  falseness  !  What  that 
is,  let  those  tell  who  have  experienced  it.  Flora  Campbell  de- 
ceived not  me  only,  Ronald  ;  she  deceived  her  father  and  hei 
mother.  Again  and  again  they  told  me  that  I  was  safe,  that 
she  had  no  other  attachment,  and  her  honeyed  words  and  her 
treacherous  smile  said  the  same.  I  loved  her — Heaven  knows 
how — I  can't  talk  of  it ;  and  she  might  have  made  me  what 
she  would."  He  paused,  and  Ronald,  touched  by  a  confidence 
so  unlike  what  he  had  expected,  said  in  a  tone  of  sympathy, 
"  It  must  have  been  a  hard  trial." 

He  receired  no  answer  for  some  seconds.  Then  the  mo- 
mentary softness  seemed  to  have  passed  away,  and  Captain 
Vivian  spoke  again  :  "  Mean  spirits  sink  under  hard  trials,  as 
they  are  called.  That  was  not  my  way  :  I  lived  for  revenge, 
Ronald;  you  would  do  the  same." 

'  It  would  be  my  temptation,"  he  replied. 

"  Temptation  !  pshaw  !  What  a  man  is  made,  that  he  must 
be.  Neither  you  nor  I  could  ever  live  to  be  trampled  on.  Yet 
revenge  must  be  taken  according  to  circumstances ;  and  if  it 
falls  in  with  profit,  where's  the  blame?  What  I  did  might  not 
suit  all.  Some  would  have  called  Edward  Vivian  out  and  shot 
him  ;  but  I  had  no  fancy  for  that  game." 

The  mocking  laugh  which  followed  the  words  curdled  the 
blood  in  Ronald's  veins;  and,  without  lifting  up  his  eyes,  he 
Eaid,  iu  a  holhjw  voice,   "  You  ruined  him." 

There  -vtas  the  hesitation  of  a  moment,  but  the  assertion 
was  a  relief,  and  Captain  Vivian  continued,  hurriedly,  "  Well! 
'ct  it  be  said  I  ruined  him.      He  was  a  fool,  Ronald;  it  waa 


3G8  CLEVE    HALL. 

not  fit  to  deal  with  liim  as  with  a  man  of  spirit.  And  he 
tlirew  tho  s^anie  into  my  hands.  Fur  inoiitlis  he  liad  kit  hini- 
solt"  he  led  blindfohl.  lie  tokl  mc  all  his  follies;  I  even 
wrote  his  letters  for  him.  He  had  not  the  sense  to  see  I  was 
his  rival ;  not,  at  least,  till  the  very  last.  Then  he  turned 
round  and  reproached  me  with  plotting;  against  his  happiness 
— he  who,  at  the  very  moment,  was  plucking  from  my  grasp 
the  prize  I  valued  above  all  on  earth.  Sun^ly,  when  he  had 
succeeded  I  had  a  right  to  take  the  advantage  he  had  put  into 
my  hands.  I  knew  his  debts  and  his  difficulties ;  he  had 
])]aced  nie  in  possession  of  all  before  his  miserable  marriage, 
and  had  arranged  that  I  was  to  go  to  England,  and  see  the  old 
General,  and  get  from  him  all  I  could,  whether  in  fair  words 
or  good  deeds.  That,  again,  was  his  folly — for  the  General 
hated  me — but  his  fate  blinded  him.  '  Quern  Deus  vult  per- 
dere  prins  dementat,'  as  they  used  to  teach  me  at  school,  llov/ 
T  laughed  in  my  heart  as  he  played  into  my  hands.  It  so 
hap[)ened,  too,  that  just  at  that  time  I  had  another  ally, — 
Guff,  who  was  his  servant.  Long  before  I  had  bought  the 
fellow  over  to  my  side,  and  a  good  deal  I  learnt  through  him ; 
nearly  enough  to  have  stopped  the  marriage,  only,  as  ill-luck 
would  have  it,  they  had  a  desperate  quarrel  about  a  week  be- 
fore it  came  off,  and  Goff  was  turned  away  at  an  hour's  notice, 
and  came  straight  to  me.  When  the  deed  was  done,  and  the 
marriage  could  not  be  prevented,  he  was  my  right  hand  in  ]ny 
plans,  for  he  knew  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  Edward  A'^ivian's 
life,  and  was  as  much  his  enemy  as  I  was ;  why, — he  didn't 
tell  me  then,  but  I  found  out  afterwards.  There  was  some 
question  of  honesty  pending.  Goff  was  never  very  scrupu- 
lous, and  there  were  threats  of  inquiry  into  his  doings.  But 
all  that  was  nothing  to  me.  I  had  got  the  man  I  needed,  and 
he  had  got  the  master  who  suited  him.  We  understood  each 
other,  and  he  was  willing  to  back  me;  and  so  we  started  for 
England  directly  upon  the  news  of  the  marriage,  I  taking  care 
not  to  betray  my  disappointment,  but  still  writing  to  Edward 
to  trust  me  and  I  would  put  all  straight  with  the  General." 

A  groan  was  uttered  by  Ronald. 

Captain  Vivian  laughed  faintly.  ''Tut!  lad,  cheer  up. 
You  don't  understand  such  matters.  Well  for  you  !  perhaps. 
But  a  man  who  means  to  carry  out  a  scheme  musn't  be  seru* 
pulous  ;  and  you  know  it's  all  gone  by  now.  I  was  young,  then, 
and  hot-heilded,  and  what  I'd  set  my  heart  to  do  I  would  \hj 


CLEVE    HALL.  oGl) 

^woiildu't  be  the  same  now.  Cheer  up,"  he  repeated,  as 
Konald  still  hid  his  face  from  him. 

"  Go  ou,"  was  all  he  said ;  and  his  father  went  on,  yet  les-j 
carelessly  than  before.  He  was  approaching  that  part  of  his 
story  where  even  his  hardened  spirit  shrank  from  the  confes- 
sion of  its  guilt. 

''  We  came  to  England,  and  saw  the  General ;  and  there 
was  a  long  talk  about  the  marriage  and  the  money  affairs,  lie 
was  primed  to  take  oifeuce,  and,  of  course,  I  didn't  let  mat- 
ters appear  too  smooth.  I  had  full  credentials  given  mc  some 
weeks  before,  so  there  was  no  question  that  I  was  an  accre- 
dited agent.  To  do  the  old  man  justice,  he  was  so  straight- 
forward he  would  have  run  his  head  against  a  stone  wall  if  it 
had  been  built  up  right  before  him.  He  took  my  word  for 
truth,  and  if  there  was  a  doubt,  Goff  was  at  hand  as  a  wit- 
ness. So  we  told  him  some  pretty  gambling  stories, — a  little 
embellished,  perhaps,  as  was  fair — and  the  marriage  history 
as  a  conclusion  ;  and  he  was  willing  to  consider  me  as  his  son's 
friend,  and  talk  over  arrangements  for  settling  the  debts.  But 
that  wasn't  quite  my  notion.  He  was  stiif  and  hard,  but  there 
was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  which  told  of  yielding  and  forgiving ; 
and  if  it  had  come  to  that,  good-b'ye  to  all  hope  of  revenge. 
No ;  I  wasn't  to  be  balked  in  that  way  I"  Captain  Vivian  uttered 
the  last  words  as  though  addressing  himself,  for  something 
seemed  to  cheek  him  when  he  would  have  pronounced  llo- 
nald's  name ;  and  he  rose  up,  and  walked  once  or  twice  up  and 
down  the  cave,  and  went  to  the  extremity  of  the  passage  to 
look  out  upon  the  sea.  Then  he  came  back  again,  and  said, 
in  a  tone  of  icy  unconcern,  "  That  was  the  tug  of  war  between 
us,  but  I  gained  the  day.  When  nothing  else  would  answer, 
I  handed  him  a  paper  which  did  for  Vivian  :  a  promissory  note 
for  five  thousand  pounds." 

Ronald  started  up.  "  A  forgery,  father  !  Say  it  was  not 
a  forgery  I     Oh,  God  !  have  mercy  !" 

Miserable  he  was,  but  not  so  miserable  as  the  wretched 
man,  from  whose  face  every  tint  of  color  had  faded,  and  who 
stood,  haggard,  yet  defiant,  convicted  by  the  confession  of  his 
own  mouth. 

A  long,  long  silence — whilst  the  waves  plashed  softly  upon 
the  smooth-sanded  beach,  and  the  cry  of  the  sea-gull  was  faintly 
lieard  amongst  the  rocky  cliffs. 

Captain  Vivian  was  the  first  to  recover  himself.  "  The 
deed's  done,  Ronald,  and  the  day's  gone  by;  and  if  you  wish 


370  CLEVE    HALL. 

for  sorrow,  I've  had  sorrow  enough.  But,  fjood  or  bad,  it's  not 
for  a  son  to  <xo  counter  to  his  father,  or  refuse  to  lend  a  help 
ing  liaiid  when  the  time  is  come  to  save  him  from  ruin." 

Ivonald  did  not  answer,  and  he  continued  : — "  It's  what  I 
have  always  looked  to.  When  it  has  crossed  my  mind  that 
things  might  take  an  awkward  turn,  I  felt  I  had  a  friend  at 
home.     Your  mother  said  it." 

"  jMy  mother !  Thank  God  she  did  not  live  to  see  thia 
day;"  and  llonald,  roused  for  a  moment,  sank  agaiu  into  his 
former  attitude. 

A  trace  of  emotion  was  visible  in  Captain  Vivian's  face. 
*'  Thank  God,  too,"  he  said,  '*'but  she  would  have  helped  me." 

"  Father,  what  would  you  have  me  do  T'  Ronald  looked  up 
steadily,  with  a  glazed  eye,  and  a  countenance  which  in  those 
few  moments  seemed  to  have  been  stamped  with  the  suffering 
of  years. 

"  Edward  Vivian  is  in  England/'  was  the  reply. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it." 

"  He  has  been  at  Encombc ;  he  is  coming  again.  When 
he  does  come,  it  will  be  to  reclaim  his  inheritance." 

Ronald  only  bent  his  head  in  assent. 

"  Ilis  success  will  be  my  I'uin,"  continued  Captain  Vivian, 

''  unless .     There  is  a  paper,  Ronald — that  which  did  the 

mischief;  it  is  in  Bertha  Campbell's  hands.  How  she  got  it 
passes  my  comprehension,  but  it  is  there.  It  would  be  proof 
certain,  and  your  father  wovdd  end  his  days  as  a  convicted 
felon.  That  paper  must  be  in  my  possession  before  another 
day  has  passed  over  our  heads."  He  paused,  and  in  a  lower 
tone  added,  "you  must  contrive  to  lay  hold  of  it." 

Captain  Vivian's  penetrating  glance  rested  upon  his  son, 
and  a  secret,  yet  irresistible,  influence  seemed  to  compel  Ro- 
nald to  confront  his  gaze.  Their  eyes  met,  but  neither  of 
them  spoke  for  some  seconds. 

"  Well !"  burst  at  length  from  Captain  Vivian's  lips. 

"  You  must  find  another  to  execute  your  purpose,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  Traitor  !"   exclaimed  Captain  Vivian. 

Ronald  continued  in  a  tone  cold  and  hard,  as  if  every  feel- 
ing were  petrified.  *' Mr.  Vivian's  claim  is  just;  to  destroy 
the  proof  of  his  innocence  would  be  unjust." 

The  rocky  walls  of  the  cavern  rang  with  a  fearful  impreca- 
I'lon,  and,  standing  before  his  son.  Captain  Vivian  poured  forth 
1  torrent  of  reproaches,  which  yet  only  served  to  deepen  the 


CLEVE    HALL.  37T 

immovable  expression  of  Ronald's  face.  When  liis  father's 
violence  had  in  a  degree  exhausted  itself,  he  said, — "  Ask  me 
what  jou  will,  that  may  be  granted  without  sin,  and  were  it 
to  give  up  my  lifu  it  should  be  done." 

Captain  Vivian  laughed  scornfully.  "  Sin  ! — to  save  a 
father,  by  the  destruction  of  a  paltry  paper !  The  boy  is 
mad." 

"Then  God  grant  that  the  madness  may  last!"  replied 
Ronald.  Changing  his  tone,  he  continued,  in  a  A^oice  of  plead- 
ing earnestness,  which  might  have  been  the  whisper  of  that 
womanly  tenderness  inherited  from  his  mother : — "  Father, 
you  have  asked  a  favor  of  me,  and  I  have  refused  to  grant  it. 
I  have  no  right,  therefore,  to  seek  kindness  from  you;  yet  I 
do — I  must.  Miss  Campbell's  warnings  are  clear  to  me  now, 
so  also  are  her  promises.  Trust  her — trust  Mr.  Vivian — and, 
by  all  that  is  sacred,  I  do  affirm  my  conviction  that  you  are 
safe." 

Captain  Vivian  looked  at  him  wildly. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Ronald,  "  safe  by  their  own  promises,  by 
all  the  obligations  of  gratitude.  Once  I  have  saved  Mr. 
Vivian's  life — once  I  assisted  in  saving  his  daughter.  He 
acknowledges  the  claim ;  I  have  heard  it  from  his  own  lips — 
no  matter  how  or  when — but  for  my  sake  he  will  dread  to 
injure  you.  As  surely,  father,  as  there  is  truth  in  man,  he 
will  be  time  to  you,  if  only  you  will  trust  him." 

He  was  interrupted  mockingly.  "  And  give  myself  up  to 
the  nearest  magistrate  ?  Ronald,  you  are  a  desperate  fool !" 
and  Captain  Vivian  paced  the  floor  of  the  cave  with  short  and 
hurried  steps. 

After  a  few  seconds  he  stopped.  "  You  have  seen  Edward 
A'^ivian  5  I  guessed  as  much.  Let  me  know  the  how  and  the 
when." 

"■  I  saw  him  the  last  evening  that  he  was  here ;  we  had 
met  upon  the  Croome,  and  he  had  betrayed  himself.  I  knew 
then  that  there  was  enmity  between  you.  I  did  not  know  for 
what  cause." 

"  Mean,  wretched  boy  !  Plotting  against  your  father,  de- 
ceiving him  for  months  !  And  Edward  Vivian — an  idiot  still, 
preaching  of  jiromises  and  trust,  when  wealth  or  ruin  was  at 
Btaks  !  The  experience  of  centuries  would  not  be  enough  for 
Buch  a  man." 

"  It  was  I,  father,  who  extracted  the  promise.  I  who  spoko 
of  trust.     I  who  do,  and  will,  trust." 


OiZ  CLEVE    HALL. 

"And  you  who  sold  3'ourself  to  liis  purpose,  aiul  proiuised 
to  aid  him  fur  your  father's  destruction." 

''  Oh,  God  I  pardon  nie  !  Have  pity  upon  ine  !  I  aiti 
very  mii^erable."  llonald's  spirit  <j;ave  way,  and  he  cast  liini- 
self  upon  the  floor  in  an  ac;ony  of  <;;rief. 

Captain  Vivian  stood  by  him  silently.  Whatever  mi^ht  bo 
liis  feelin<^-s  of  indignation  against  his  son  for  having  kept  from 
him  his  communication  with  jMr.  Vivian,  it  was  not  then  the 
moment  to  show  it.  Too  much  depended  upon  Ronald's  con- 
senting to  be  a  partner  in  his  scliemes  to  admit  of  any  expres- 
sion which  would  be  likely  to  repel  and  irritate  him ;  and 
during  those  first  few  moments  of  suffering  there  was  sufficient 
time  for  self-recollection  to  convince  him  that  if  his  object  was 
to  be  obtained,  it  must  be  by  very  difi'erent  means  than  threats 
or  violence. 

^V'hen  Ronald,  somewhat  calmed  by  the  outburst  to  whu-h 
he  had  given  way,  at  length  rose  and  moved  towards  the  en- 
trance of  the  cave,  willing,  apparently,  to  put  an  end  to  the 
conference,  he  was  stopped  by  a  voice  which  sounded  rather 
like  the  entreaty  of  a  brother,  then  the  command  of  a  parent: 
— "  And  you  leave  me,  then,  Ronald,  to  ruin  ?" 

"  I  leave  you,  father,  because  I  cannot  help  you  as  you 
would  be  helped ;  but  I  will  wait  your  orders  at  home." 

"  Home  !  1  have  none.  I  am  a  wanderer,  sent  forth  by 
my  own  child.  Is  it  so  that  you  keep  yoiar  mother's  last 
wish  ?" 

Ronald  put  his  hands  before  his  eyes.  "  My  brain  is 
dizzy, — I  can't  think;  give  me  but  an  hour's  rest." 

"  When  -we  are  in  safety, — not  before.  Your  father's 
shame  will  be  yours  also." 

"■  I  know  it;  oh,  yes,  I  know  it,  too  well !'' 

"  And  if  it  is  so  that  Edward  Vivian  is  under  such  deep 
obligation,  he  can  never  find  fault  with  you  for  taking  from 
him  what,  according  to  your  own  story,  he  would  never  con- 
sent to  make  use  of  as  proof." 

"I  don't  know,  father;  I  can't  understand.  My  head  is 
burning."     Ronald  leant  against  the  wall  for  support. 

Captain  Vivian  went  on  slowly.  "  He  says  that  he  is  will- 
ing to  hush  the  case.  It  may  be  so,  but  I  won't  put  my  head 
into  the  lion's  mouth ;  or,  if  I  do,  I  will  first  draw  his  teeth. 
Granted  that  he  takes  no  measures  against  me,  who  is  to 
answer  for  the  General?  I  have  not  lived  fifty  years  in  the 
Yi'orld  I0  be  duped  by  promises.     The  paper  must  be  mine;  if 


CLEVE    HALL.  373 

not  by  fair  means,  then  by  fotil.  But  witb  you,  Ronald,  it 
would  be  an  easy  matter.  Bertha  Campbell  puts  faith  in  you, 
even  to  folly." 

"  Impossible  !  I  have  no  excuse.     I   could  make  no  pre- 
tence." 

^'  Pshaw  !"      Captain  Yivian's  tone  relapsed  into  coarse 
good  humour,  as  he  fancied  himself  gaining  the  ascendant. 
"  You  don't  think  I  have  learnt  what  I  have  without  forming 
my  plans  accordingly.     The  thing  is  easy  enough.     Mr.  Lester 
had  the  paper;  it  must  have  been  given  him  by  the  General. 
In  my  folly  I  fancied   that  the  old  man,  in   his  stiff,  family 
pride,  would  destroy  it,  that  it  might  never  tell  the  tale  of  his 
sou's  misdeeds.     Doubtless  Edward  Vivian  and  his  friend  arc, 
at  this  moment,  planning  to  make  use  of  it.     But  while  there's 
life  there's  hope.     It  is  not  in  their  possession  now.     Bertha 
Campbell  has  it, — she  keeps  it  about  her  in  her  pocket-book. 
I  learnt  that  by  ways  which  you  would  never  guess.    You  must 
go  to  her  with  news  of  the  boy, — of  Clement ;  the  story  is 
easily  concocted.     He  shall  be  suspected  to  have  gone  off  on 
a  lai-k,  with   some    strange   friend   of   Goff's, — a  smuggling 
friend,  if  you  will,"  and  Captain  Vivian  tried  to  laugh.    "  You 
may  guess  that  they'll  be  back  some  particular  day,  and  have 
a  fuss  about  the  date  ;  anything  to  induce  her  to  bring  out  the 
book.     Then  let  Goff  or  me  be  near,  with  some  sudden  mes- 
sage which  shall  make  her  lay  it  down  at  the  right  moment, 
ami  leave  you  with  it,  and  good  luck  to  your  cleverness  in 
taking  advantage  of  the  opportunity.     A  good  scheme,  eh  ? 
Don't  you  think  so  1"  and  he  pried  keenly  into  Ronald's  pale 
and  stony  face.     Obtaining  no  answer,  he  added : — "  What's 
an  easy  job  for  you,  would  be   desperately  difficult  for  me. 
She's  on  her  guard  the  moment  she  sees  me.     Ten  to  one  that 
I  should  ever  get  admittance  to  the  house;  and  twenty  to  one 
that  if  I  did,  t  should  make  her  forget  herself  enough  to  leave 
the  book  with  me.     And  there's  no  time  for  failure ;  what's 
dune  must  be  done  to-night,  or  good  b'ye  to  Encombe,  and 
hurrah  for  Botany  Bay  1" 

Ronald  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

"  Well,  are  you  agreed '!"  was  his  father's  next  impatient 
r|iiory. 

He  shook  his  head,  but  he  could  not  utter  a  word. 

"  Senseless  boy  !  this  is  no  time  for  icsting.      Say,  shall  we 
be  off?" 


374  CLEYE    HALL. 

''  Impossible  !''  The  word  scciuod  to  coino  from  the  depths 
of  his  heart. 

Captain  Vivian  cautrht  its  accent  of  resohition.  "  Impos- 
sible !  Let  Heaven  be  witness,  it  shall  not  be  impossible.  Yet 
stay ;  it  may  be  as  well  to  hear  the  wise  reasons  which  yon  can 
produce  for  bringing  your  father's  gray  hairs  to  the  grave  in 
Bliame." 

"  It  is  false  and  unjust,  and  I  have  pledged  myself  to  re- 
pair injustice,"  was  Ronald's  answer. 

**  Pledged  yourself  against  me  I" 

''Not  against  you,"  replied  Ronald,  "but  to  restore  Mr. 
Vivian  to  his  right.  Father,  your  sou  would  sacrifice  life  for 
you,  but  he  cannot  sacrifice  honor.  And  if  your  plan  were 
carried  out,"  he  continued,  more  calmly,  "  it  could  but  partially 
save  you ;  all  feeling  of  obligation  as  regai-ds  myself  would  bo 
cancelled.  Mr.  Vivian  would  be  your  open  enemy,  and  mine 
also,  and  every  motive  of  self-justification  would  induce  him 
to  sift  the  matter  to  the  bottom.  What  the  event  would  bo 
who  can  say  ?  Disgrace  !  yes,  at  least,  disgrace  !"  he  repeated, 
shuddering  at  the  word. 

"  A  noble,  cautious  boy  !  Most  sagely  prudent !  And 
what  then  would  be  your  wise  advice  ?" 

"  A  wrong  has  been  done,"  replied  Ronald,  "  therefore  let 
the  wrong  be  repaired.  I  do  not  ask,  father,  that  you  should 
pixt  yourself  in  danger,  or  tnist  even  Mr.  Vivian  as  I  would 
trust  him.  If  you  will,  let  us  leave  the  country,  and  place 
ourselves  in  safety,  and  then  let  the  confession  be  made  by 
writing.  So  far  all  will  be  done  that  could  be  to  replace  jMr. 
Vivian  in  his  right  position  with  the  General.  As  regards  the 
debt,  let  me  work.  Father,  you  do  not  know  how  I  can 
work, — how  I  can  endure.  Give  me  but  this  object,  and  death 
only  shall  hinder  me  from  obtaining  it.  And  when  we  have 
restored  to  General  Vivian,  or  to  his  family,  the  sum  unlaw- 
fully taken  from  them,  even  though  we  may  never  return  to 
England,  we  yet  may  live  honored  and  free."  A  gleam  of 
bright  hope  shot  across  Ronald's  face  as  he  stood  up  proudly ; 
and  the  expression  of  his  young  and  noble  features  told  how 
earnestly,  how  unwaveringly,  the  plan  he  had  proposed  would 
be  carried  to  its  conclusion. 

But  the  unhappy  man  to  whom  he  addressed  himself  was 
too  far  entangled  in  his  own  snares  to  be  willing  to  adopt  it. 
He  did  not  indeed  ridicule  it;  perhaps  even  a  softened  look 
of  admiration  might  have  been  ti'accd  in  his  countenance;  bul 


CLEVE    HALL.  375 

he  put  the  idea  aside,  as  he  would  the  dream  of  a  simple  child, 
and  merely  replyin2;,  "  Good  euoutrh,  perhaps,  for  some  people, 
if  it  were  only  possible,"  agaiu  inquired  whether  llonald  would 
couseut  to  yield  obedience  to  his  will. 

And  Ronald  answered,  "  On  this  point,  never  I"  And  both 
were  silent. 

Then  Captain  Vivian  spoke  once  more  abruptly  j  "  So  tho 
boy's  doom  is  fixed." 

Ronald  caught  his  arm.  "  The  boy  ?  Clement  ?  Father, 
you  know  where  he  is." 

Captain  Vivian  withdrew  himself,  and  strode  to  the  entrance 
of  the  cave,  muttering  as  he  went. 

"  Father,  in  mercy — in  pity  tell  me  !  Let  me  save  him." 

"  You  may,  but  you  will  not,"  was  the  answer. 

''  Cruel,  cruel  I"  exclaimed  Ronald,  and  he  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

"  Do  my  bidding,  and  he  is  safe,*''  continued  Captain 
Vivian.  "  Refuse,  and  this  very  day  I  leave  England,  and 
give  him  up  to  his  fate." 

"  His  fate  !  what  fate  ?  Oh,  father,  where  is  he  ?  Let  me 
only  know,  that  I  may  judge."  There  was  yielding  in  Ronald's 
tone,  and  in  his  words. 

Captain  Vivian  returned  again  into  the  cave  and  sat  down. 
''Where  he  is  I  can't  say  just  now.  Where  he  maybe,  I 
can  guess.  In  a  desperate  scrape, — in  prison,  probably,  before 
the  night  is  over  our  heads." 

Ronald  looked  at  him  in  wild  terror.  "  In  prison  ?  Then 
he  has  been  tempted, — led  away." 

His  father  interrupted  him.  "  Led  away  !  The  boy's  of 
an  age  to  judge  for  himself." 

"  Help  me, — help  me, — what  can  I  do  for  him  ?"  And 
Ronald  clasped  his  hands  together  in  the  anguish  of  his 
entreaty. 

"  I  have  told  you.  I  am  not  going  to  trust  more  to  a  son 
who  won't  stretch  out  his  hand  to  save  his  father  from  public 
disgrace.     Clement's  fate  is  in  your  hands." 

"I  can't  tell,  —  I  can't  think."  Ronald  threw  himself 
upon  his  knees,  and  words  of  earnest  but  incoherent  prayer 
burst  from  him. 

His  father  turned  away, — he  could  not  mock  him. 

The  long,  shrill,  well-l'aiowu  whistle  !     Ronald  started  up. 

"  'Tis  he  !  Goff"!"  exclain\ed  Captain  Vivian.  "  He  cornea 
to  know  your  determination." 


376  CLEVE    HALL. 

RDnah^s  fnec  h;i(l  recovered  its  expression  of  calm  rcsulii. 
tion.  "  Toll  him  that  1  will  not  do  evil  that  fjood  may  come. 
Father,  God  <;raiit  you  repentance  and  pardon." 

He  would  have  rushed  away,  but  a  powerful  grasp  arrested 
his  movements.  "  We  will  talk  of  this  again,  in  another  place  j 
you  go  with  me  now  to  the  Grange." 

llonald  had  no  means  of  escape.  They  were  met  at  the 
foot  of  the  clifl"  by  GofF.  A  hasty  glance  and  murmured  AVorda 
told  that  the  interview  had  been  fruitless,  and  llonald  had  no 
will  to  enter  into  explanation  with  his  father's  base  accom- 
plice. 

They  reached  the  Grange.  Captain  Vivian  led  the  way 
into  the  house.  He  had  not  uttered  a  word  on  the  way.  Now 
he  said,  moodily,  *'  We  have  much  to  talk  of  still.  Ten  minutes 
hence  I  will  call  yovi,  and  you  shall  hear  more  of  my  plans; 
in  the  mean  time  you  will  wait  in  your  room."  llonald  hur- 
ried to  his  chamber,  unspeakably  thankful  for  the  few  moments 
of  rest  and  solitude.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was  watched, 
he  did  not  see  that  his  steps  were  followed ;  but  as  once  more 
lie  knelt  by  the  side  of  his  rough  bed,  seeking  relief  in  prayer, 
he  heard  the  heavy  lock  of  his  door  turned  on  the  outside,  and 
realized  that  he  was  a  prisoner. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 


THE  same  glorious  sunrise  which  llonald  had  beheld  as  he 
walked  along  the  beach  was  watched  also  by  Bertha 
Campbell,  whilst  she  stood  at  her  bed-room  window.  Yet  to 
her,  as  to  him,  it  brought  but  little  perception  of  beauty. 

She  had  stood  there  very  late  on  the  preceding  night,  and 
she  had  stationed  herself  there  again  long  before  dawn ;  and 
now  she  was  lingering  still  with  that  heavy  load  of  wearing 
suspense  and  responsibility,  which  deadens  both  heart  and 
intellect  to  every  sense  but  that  of  wretchedness. 

Bertha  had  but  a  woman's  power,  and  even  that  had  never 
been  fully  exercised.  She  did  not  know  what  she  could  do, 
and  she  was  not  confident  what  she  ought  to  do.  That  last 
night  had  been  a  terrible  trial.  Mrs.  Campbell's  nervous, 
angry  uneasiness,  the  children's  fears,  and  her  own  infinitely 


CLEVE    HALL.  377 

rrorse  forebodings,  were  all  to  be  borne ;  and  tbcy  were  borne 
with  Bertha's  characteristic  composure,  but  the  trial  did  not 
work  the  less  inwardly.  Messages  were  sent,  and  men  dis- 
patched in  all  directions,  and  every  necessary  inquiry  was 
made ;  and  at  length,  about  half-past  eleven  o'clock,  Captain 
Vivian  and  llouald  made  their  appearance  at  the  Lodge,  to 
announce  that  they  had  traced  Clement  to  the  shore,  where  he 
had  been  seen  in  company  with  some  strange  men,  supposed 
to  be  a  party  from  Cleve,  but  beyond  this  no  tidings  hsd  been 
heard.  Mrs.  Campbell  found  comfort  in  this.  It  proved,  she 
said,  that  he  had  not  fallen  over  the  cliffs,  or  been  drowned. 
Slie  thought  it  might  be  a  boy's  freak, — perhaps  planned  for 
the  very  purpose  of  frightening  them,  and  she  confidently 
anticipated  his  return  the  next  day;  but  Bertha's  mind  had, 
from  the  beginning,  been  more  harassed  by  the  idea  of  his 
b?ing  led  into  evil  company  than  by  the  dread  of  an  accident; 
and  the  information  only  confirmed  her  worst  forebodings, 
except  that  it  seemed  to  exonerate  Captain  Vivian  and  Goff 
from  any  share  in  misleading  him.  She  had  parted  from  Ro- 
nald with  the  earnest  assurance,  on  his  part,  that  he  would, 
with  the  earliest  dawn  of  light,  prosecute  his  inquiries,  and 
would  not  rest  till  they  were  satisfied ;  and  then  she  had  gone 
to  rest,  but  not  to  sleep.  Conscience,  stimulated  by  anxiety, 
was  busy  with  reproaches,  and,  perhaps,  not  all  unfounded. 
She  felt  that  she  had  not  watched  over  Clement  rightly ;  she 
had  lived  apart  from  him,  allowing  herself  to  be  engrossed  with 
interests  peculiar  to  herself,  and  not  realizing  that,  having 
been  placed  towards  him  in  the  position  of  a  mother,  or,  at 
least,  of  an  elder  sister,  she  was  called  upon  for  sympathy 
which  should  draw  him  out,  and  make  his  home  happy.  Mr. 
Lester  had  often  warned  her  that  irritation  and  coldness  might 
drive  him  to  seek  amusement  from  home ;  and  yet  she  had 
not  always, — she  had  very  seldom,  indeed, — been  able  to 
command*^  herself.  So  she  had  thrown  him  entirely  upon 
Ella's  companionship;  and  this, — wayward,  indolent,  proud, 
and  self-indulgent, — had  tended  to  strengthen  his  faults,  and 
made  him  fall  a  ni(jre  easy  victim  to  slight  temptations. 

I)(jubtles,s  Bertha  exaggerated  her  own  shortcomings,  and 
ascribed  to  them  worse  consequences  than  could  properly  be 
said  to  fall  to  their  share.  We  are  all  responsible  for  our  niis- 
diiings,  whatever  may  be  the  defects  of  those  set  over  us;  and 
Clement  had  receiveil  instruction  and  warnings  sufficient  to 
keep  him  fmm  evil,  if  he  had  been  inclined  to  attend  to  them. 


378  CLEVE    HALL. 

But  it  is  nevertheless  tnxe,  and  it  is  one  of  the  f2;rcat  raysterici 
of  our  present  state  of  beini;,  that  the  influence  which  we  ex« 
crcise  without  thought,  daily  and  hourly,  is  workinp;,  cither 
for  good  or  ill,  upon  the  UKiral  character,  and  consequently 
upon  the  eternal  condition  of  those  with  whom  we  dwell. 

We  go  on,  it  may  he,  sinning  and  repenting, — making 
faint  resolutions,  and  breaking  them,  fancying  we  are  in  th(^ 
right  way,  and  that  if  we  oflend,  our  oflences  are  those  of 
human  infirmity,  upon  which  God  will  look  mercifully;  and 
so,  searching  only  into  our  own  hearts,  we  are,  upon  the  whcle, 
satisfied. 

But  there  is  another  reckoning, — it  Avill  be  seen  at  the 
Judgment  Day, — which  tells  the  eifect  of  every  hasty  word, 
every  proud,  cold  look  or  tone,  upon  the  hearts  of  those  who 
dwell  with  us.  God  have  mercy  upon  us  when  that  revelation 
is  made  ! 

Even  now  its  bitterness  is,  at  times,  forestalled.  Petulance, 
coldness,  selfishness,  proud  reserve,  an  overweening  love  of 
power,  labor  silently,  day  by  day,  in  raising  up  barriers  in  our 
homes ;  and  at  length  some  unlooked-for  circumstance  shows 
us  that  the  work  is  done, — that  we  have  estranged  afi"cction, 
and  lost  respect;  it  may  be  that  we  have  saved  ourselves,  but 
ruined  the  souls  intrusted  to  us. 

Not  that  all  which  has  been  said  could  be  applicable  to  the 
case  of  Bertha  Campbell.  With  her  the  evil  was  but  in  its 
infancy,  and  she  was  beginning  to  open  her  eyes  to  it,  before 
Clement's  unlooked-for  disappearance  had  called  forth  her 
self-reproach  so  bitterly.  But  it  was  quite  true  that  Clement 
had  often  been  induced  to  linger  with  llonald,  or  to  idle  his 
time  upon  the  shore,  because  Bertha's  cold  words,  and  con- 
stant habit  of  finding  fault,  made  home  distasteful  to  him.  It 
was  quite  true  that  his  indolence  and  wilfulness  had  been  fos- 
tered, because  ]5ertha,  by  never  taking  any  interest  in  his 
pursuits,  had  thrown  him  entirely  upon  EHa  for  sympathy ; 
and  now,  when  foreseeing  the  fatal  consequences  which  might 
arise  from  such  apparently  trivial  circumstances,  it  was  not  to 
be  supposed  that  she  could  exactly  discriminate  what  her  own 
share  in  the  evil  had  been. 

They  were  very  mournful  moments  which  she  passed 
standing  by  the  window,  watching,  as  she  thought,  but  in 
reality  lost  in  revery ;  and  the  sun,  as  it  rose  higher  in  the 
eastern  sky,  brought  to  her  mind  only  a  burdensome  sense  of 
^hill  and  darkness  in  her  own  heart,  rendered  more  evident  by 


CLEVE    HALL.  o  ( 'J 

ike  contrast  of  external  brio-htness.  She  was  pliysically  weary 
also  ;  her  rest  had  been  broken,  and  the  atmosphere  of  a  De- 
cember morning,  though  the  season  was  unusually  mild,  made 
even  the  fur  cloak  in  which  she  had  wrapped  herself  a  very 
insuflScient  covering.  Yet  it  required  an  effort  to  dress,  and 
prepare  for  the  business  of  the  day.  All  order  seemed  broken 
up:  she  did  not  know  what  to  do, — what  to  think  of;  and 
this  to  a  mind  usually  regulated  like  clock-work,  was  a  consi- 
derable addition  to  every  other  trouble. 

The  post  was  late,  and  Mrs.  Campbell's  excitement  much 
increased  in  consequence.  The  point  to  which  every  one 
looked  was  Mr.  Lester's  return,  and  this,  Mrs.  Campbell  now 
asserted,  was  impossible.  There  were  no  letters,  and,  if  he 
did  not  write,  it  was  certain  he  would  not  come.  It  was  in 
vain  that  Bertha  pointed  to  the  clock,  and  showed  that  the 
postman  was  only  five  minutes  behind  his  time,  which  was  a 
common  occurrence,  and  therefore  there  was  no  need  to  des- 
pair. Mrs.  Campbell's  fears  were  as  quickly  excited  as  her 
hopes,  and  her  anxiety  showed  itself  by  incessant  suggestions 
and  orders,  mingled  with  complaints  of  Bertha's  quietness, 
which  she  called  indifference,  and  reproaches  against  Mr.  Les- 
ter for  being  absent ;  whilst  every  now  and  then  she  wandered 
into  murmurs  against  General  Vivian,  and  reminiscences  of 
things  said  and  done  in  by-gone  years,  which  had,  doubtless, 
in  her  own  mind,  some  connexion  with  the  present  uneasiness, 
yet  which  it  was  not  very  easy  to  follow. 

Bertha  bore  all  quietly,  not  attempting  to  reason,  but  listen- 
ing to  what  was  said,  with  her  head  turned  towards  the  win- 
dow. At  last  she  observed,  in  a  very  calm  voice,  "  1  think 
that  is  Rachel  coming  up  the  garden." 

Louisa  was  at  the  front  door  with  lightning  speed. 

"  A  letter,  Rachel  ! — have  you  heard  ?" 

''  Yes,  he  comes  to-night,"  was  Rachel's  answer,  but  her 
face  was  only  partially  brightened;  yet  she  followed  Louisa 
quickly  to  the  parlor,  and  meeting  Bertha  at  the  threshold,  re- 
peated the  fact  instantly. 

"  Thank  Cod,"  was  Bertha's  whispered  ejaculation,  and 
Bhe  kissed  Rachel  heartily ;  but  it  seemed  as  though  she  had 
no  power  to  say  more. 

"  Come  here,  my  dear — sit  down  by  me  :  tell  me  what 
message  your  papa  sends,"  said  jNIrs.  Campbell,  beckoning 
Rachel  to  her. 

Rachel   sat  down  and  unfolded   her  lott(;r,  with  a  slight 


o80  CLEVE    HALL. 

feeling  of  pvidc  ;it  being  tlic  bearer  of  an  important  comnuini- 
cation. 

Bertha  sat  opposite,  her  breath  coming  qnick  and  faint. 

"  He  says,"  began  llaehel,  reading  aloud, — "  my  friend 
seems  better,  and  1  think  it  possible  1  may  bring  him  down 
with  me  for  a  little  change;  we  maybe  at  home  to-morrow 
night.  Don't  depend  upon  its,  but  don't  be  surprised  if  you 
see  us." — "That  is  very  nice,  isn't  it?"  she  added,  looking 
lip  doubtfully  in  Mrs.  Campbell's  face,  as  if  nothing  could  be 
very  nice  just  then  to  any  one. 

"  Yes,  my  dear;  but  I  wish, — oli,  dc{.r  !  Bertha,  what  time 
does  the  coach  come  in  ?" 

"  There  are  two  coaches,"  replied  Bertha.  "  Mr.  Lester 
doesn't  say  which  he  shall  come  by." 

Uachel  turned  immediately  to  Mrs.  Campbell  to  answer  the 
question  :  "  Pupa  comes  by  the  five  o'clock  coach  generally, — 
when  he  does  go  away,  that  is.  Dear  Miss  Campbell,"  and 
she  addressed  herself  to  Bertha,  with  an  accent  of  gentle 
sympathy,   "  won't  it  be  a  comfort  to  you  to  have  him  back  ?" 

"  Yes,  great ;  but  the  letter  with  the  receipted  bill  may  go 
astray." 

Even  at  that  moment  of  anxiety.  Bertha's  mind  would  fix 
itself  upon  anything  which  happened  to  be  irregular. 

•'•'  Oh  !  it  won't  signify.  Everything  will  be  right  when 
papa  comes."  Rachel  paused,  for  she  was  thinking  of  Cle- 
ment, yet  could  not  bring  herself  to  mention  his  name.  She 
repeated  again  :  "  Everything  will  be  right  when  pa2:)a  comes." 

"  Do  you  think  Clement  will  come  with  him  ?"  asked  the 
blundering  Fanny,  who  had  only  paid  a  half  attention  to  what 
was  being  said. 

Louisa  caught  up  her  words :  ''  Fanny,  how  silly  !  You 
nhvays  do  say  such  silly  things.     What  bill  was  it,  Kachel  ?" 

"Never  mind,  my  dear;  it  is  not  your  concern,"  said 
Bertha,  alive  directly  to  her  duty  as  monitor. 

Louisa  still  persisted  :  "  But  I  thought.  Aunt  Bertha,  that 
you  didn't  send  the  bill ;  it  was  in  your  pocket-book." 

"What  bill,  Louisa?  You  astonish  me.  What  do  you 
mean  by  prying  into  every  person's  concerns  in  this  way  ?" 

"  I  didn't  pry.  Aunt  Bertha" — and  the  angry  flush  rushed 
to  Louisa's  cheeks;  "but  if  you  remember,  when  1  told  ymi 
yesterday  that  Anne  at  the  Rectory  was  still  fussing  about  a 
lost  paper,  you  said,  '  Oh  !  she  needn't  trouble  herself;  Rachel 
knows  all  about  it :  I  took  it  and  put  it  in  my  pocket-b^>ok.' 


CLEVE    HALL.  881 

I  remember  quite  well  that  was  what  you  said;  and  I  told  it 
to  Anne  wheu  I  saw  her,  as  we  came  back  from  our  walk." 

"  I  wi^^h  you  to  have  no  gossip  with  Anne  of  any  kind," 
observed  Bertha,  quickly;   "I  won't  have  you  speak  to  her." 

"  I  don't  think  Anne  gossips  more  than  other  people," 
muttered  Louisa. 

"  She  does,  though,"  exclaimed  Fanny,  anxious  to  put  in 
her  opinion  upon  the  state  of  passing  aifairs.  "  She  was  talk- 
ing a  long,  long  time  to  Goff  last  evening,  after  we  came 
home — I  saw  her  from  my  window;  and  he  looked  so  ugly  and 
fierce,  I  wonder  she  wasn't  frightened  at  him." 

"  I  want  to  hear  no  more  of  either  of  them,"  observed 
Bertha.  She  turned  to  her  mother,  and  added  :  "  I  am  think- 
ing of  going  to  the  Hall.  Miss  Vivian  will  be  anxious  to 
know  what  we  have  heard  and  done." 

''  I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  tell,"  replied  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell ;   "  I  can't  understand  myself  what  any  one  is  doing." 

"  The  gardener  is  gone  oif  to  Cleve,  trying  to  trace  the  men 
who  were  on  the  shore  last  night,"  answered  Bertha,  without 
endeavoring  to  excuse  herself;  '^and  there  is  another  man 
sent  to  give  notice  to  the  police  ;  and  Job  Horner  is  over  the 
hills  by  Barney  Wood's  cottage  ;  and  Bonald  said  he  and  his 
father  would  search  along  the  cliffs,  and  keep  a  watch  upon 
the  beach.  I  don't  think  we  can  do  anything  more  till  Mr. 
Lester  comes, — only  wait ;"  and  she  sighed  deeply. 

"  I  wish  you  could  cheer  one  up,  Bertha ;  you  always  take 
the  black  side.  Poor  boy !  I  am  sure  he  will  be  back  soon. 
But  those  dreadful  men  must  have  led  him  into  it  for  a  freak. 
I  am  sure  he  will  be  back  this  evening.  Where  did  you  say 
you  were  going  ?" 

"  To  the  Hall,"  replied  Bertha.  '•'  I  think  some  one  ought 
to  see  Miss  Vivian.  Bachel,  will  you  go  with  me  ?  Fanny 
and  Louisa  have  colds." 

Mrs.  Caurpbell,  not  choosing  her  consent  to  be  taken  for 
granted,  began  to  make  objections.  She  disliked,  she  said,  to 
be  left;  if  persons  came  in,  she  shouldn't  be  able  to  see  them, 
and  Bertha  ought  to  stay  at  home  and  give  orders  ;  and  Bertha 
acquiesced,  and  began  to  prepare  for  the  chiidron's  lessons. 
And  then  3Irs.  Campbell  changed  her  mind,  and  was  surprised 
that  Bertha  could  be  so  indifferent,  and  thought  that  all  kinds 
of  stories  might  reach  the  Hall  if  some  one  did  not  go  and 
explain  matters.  She  was  in  that  irritable,  nervous  state  in 
ivhich  nothing  can  please,  and  when  to  see  others  ([uiet  is  only 


382  CLEVE    HALL. 

an  ajrjiravatinii  of  snfferina;.  But  Bertlia  felt  that  she  must  do 
somethiiijx,  if  it  were  only  for  the  sake  of  the  children.  No 
good  could  accrue  to  thcin  by  sittin<^  down  in  idle  lamenta- 
tions, or  walking  continually  from  one  room  to  the  other,  and 
looking  out  of  every  window;  so  a  compromise  with  Mrs. 
('am])beirs  conflicting  wishes  was  made  at  last ;  and  it  was 
settled  that  Bertha  should  wait  till  after  the  early  dinner,  set 
the  children  to  their  lessons,  and  hear  all  tliat  might  be  heard 
of  the  result  of  the  different  inquiries,  and  in  the  afternoon 
walk  with  Rachel  to  the  Hall;  whilst  Louisa  and  Fanny  Avere 
left  with  their  grandmamma. 

This  was  the  best  arrangement  Bertha  could  think  of,  but 
it  did  not  thoroughly  satisfy  her.  She  disliked  leaving  the 
children  at  home,  for  with  Louisa's  curiosity  there  was  always 
the  dread  of  gossip  with  the  servants,  and  though  ]^etsy  at  the 
Lodge  was  very  discreet,  the  same  could  not  be  said  of  Anne 
at  the  llectory.  In  spite  of  her  promises  of  amendment,  Ber- 
tha had  reason  to  believe  that  she  was  by  no  means  tht)roughly 
to  be  trusted ;  and  the  little  hint  which  Fanny  had  thrown 
out  respecting  the  last  evening's  conversation  with  Goff,  rested 
in  her  mind  with  a  very  uneasy  feeling.  Anne  had  nothing 
to  tell,  so  far  as  Bertha  knew,  which  all  the  world  might  not 
hea-r;  but  Goff's  constant  communications  made  it  evident 
that  he  must  have  some  object  in  keeping  up  the  acquaintance. 
Bertha  resolved  that  Mr.  Lester  should  be  put  thoroughly 
upon  his  guard,  and  Anne's  place  was  already,  in  her  own 
mind,  vacant.  That  was  not,  however,  to  be  thought  of  at 
present;  Mr.  Lester  was  to  return  in  the  evening;  and  then 
all  this  trouble,  anxiety,  and  responsibility  would  be  lessened, 
even  if  before  that  Clement  did  not  make  his  appearance. 


CHAPTER  XLII 


BERTHA  and  Rachel  had  a  very  quiet  walk.  They  were 
both  too  thoughtful  to  talk — at  least,  at  first.  Rachel 
often  looked  round,  fiincying  she  might  hear  or  see  something 
of  Clement.  Bertha  went  on  appai'ently  noticing  nothing,  but 
in  reality  with  eye  and  ear  thoroughly  open,  whilst  the  mind 
was  dwelling  upon  the  most  painful,  and,  as  it  might  have  been 


CLEVE    HALL.  383 

supposed,  absorbing  topics.  And  absorbing  tbey  were,  onl}^  all 
connected  with  the  one  idea  of  Clement's  absence.  She  thought 
of  what  he  might  have  been  led  to  do;  of  his  father's  horror  j 
Mr.  Lester's  pain ;  General  Vivian's  indignation ;  the  down- 
fall of  that  fabric  of  hope  which  for  the  last  few  months  they 
had  been  building.  And  then  her  own  share  in  it !  That 
came  back  again  and  again,  and  always  with  the  despairing 
feeling  that  she  did  not  know  how  to  amend,  that  she  gave 
offence  without  meaning  it,  and  had  no  power  of  expressing  her 
feelings,  and  was  thoroughly  misunderstood — even  by  Edward 
Vivian,  for  whom  the  best  years  of  her  life  had  been  sacrificed. 
At  length  the  lonely  feeling  could  be  borne  no  longer,  and  it 
came  out  to  llachel,  in  answer  to  a  passing  observation  of  de- 
light at  the  prospect  of  her  father's  return.  "  Yes,  it  will  be 
very  nice  for  you.  It  must  be  very  delightful  to  have  some 
one  to  whom  you  can  say  everything." 

"So  pleasant!"  exclaimed  Rachel;  and  then,  checking 
herself  as  though  it  wei-e  wrong  to  think  of  anything  pleasant 
just  then,  she  said,  "  But  it  won't  be  pleasant  to-night — un- 
less we  have  news,  that  is." 

Bertha  avoided  the  painful  allusion,  and  answered  the  first 
part  of  the  speech :  "  Very  few  people  have  that  happiness, 
llachel ;  you  should  learn  to  make  the  most  of  it." 

"  I  do  try,  I  hope ;  but  I  suppose  grown-up  people  don't 
want  it  as  much  as  children." 

"  Yes,  they  do — quite  as  much,"  said  Bertha,  abruptly. 
"  But  they  don't  want  human  beings  to  tell  things  to,  I 
suppose,"  replied  Rachel,  reverently,  yet  timidly. 

"They  want  them,  but  they  don't  find  them,"  continued 
Bertha  ;   "  and  that  is  why  they  are  unhappy." 

"  I  shall  tell  everything  to  papa  as  long  as  I  have  him," 
said  Rachel ;  "  but  if  he  were  not  with  me,  I  don't  think  I 
could  go  and  talk  in  the  same  way  to  any  one  else." 

"  Then  you  would  miss  it,  dreadfully,"  replied  Bertha. 
"  Yes,  dreadfully;  I  know  that.  It  used  to  make  me  un- 
happy to  think  about  it,  till  papa  said  that  love  for  him  was 
like  a  stepping-stone,  that  it  was  meant  to  teach  me  how  I 
was  to  love  God  ;  and  since  that,  I  have  tried  sometimes,  when 
he  has  been  away,  to  think  that  I  had  God  to  go  to ;  and  now 
and  then — not  always,  oidy  now  and  then — it  seems  as  if  that 
would  make  up  for  everything." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  Rachel — now  and  then  ;  but  what  one  wants  in 
to  feel  it  always,"  said  Bertha. 


38-4  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  It  would  bo  wonJerfull}'  pleasant,  wouldn't  k  ?"  rejjlied 
Rachel.  "  JIow  it  would  help  one  in  the  world  !  But,  dear 
Miss  Campbell,  persons  who  are  as  good  as  you  are  must  al- 
ways feel  it." 

"  Ob,  no,  Rachel;  what  a  mistake!"  and  Bertha  stopped 
suddenly. 

llaehel  was  thoughtful  and  silent.  Presently  she  said, 
without  any  attempt  at  a  preface,  "  One  day  I  was  going  iip 
the  hills,  feeling  very  tired,  and  trying  so  to  get  on,  and  then 
being  quite  out  of  breath  ;  and  at  last  papa  came,  and  jiut  his 
haud  at  my  back,  and  it  made  such  a  difference — I  went  on 
almost  without  feeling  it.  And  afterwards  papa  reminded  me 
of  it,  and  said  it  was  like  the  different  ways  in  which  I  could 
go  through  life;  trying  to  overcome  difficulties  by  myself,  and 
thinking  I  had  a  point  to  reach,  and  then  God  would  love  me, 
and  be  pleased  with  me — that,  he  said,  was  acting  from  duty 
alone ;  or  else,  feeling  that  God  was  really  with  me  now,  help- 
ing me  on  at  every  step ;  and  loving  me,  not  because  I  had 
done  the  things,  but  because  I  was  trying  to  do  them — and 
that,  he  said,  would  be  acting  from  love.  And,  do  you  know, 
Miss  Campbell — it  is  so  odd — I  have  had  it  in  my  mind  ever 
since ;  and  when  I  feel  cross  and  lazy — and  I  do  very  often — 
then  I  think  that  God  is  quite  close  to  me.  And  I  have  a 
kind  of  fancy — I  hope  it  does  not  sound  irreverent — that  He 
is  really  putting  His  hand  at  the  back  of  my  heart,  and  telling 
me,  that  if  I  will  move.  He  will  keep  it  there,  and  make  the 
tiresome  things  easy.     Is  there  any  harm  in  such  thoughts  ?" 

"  No  harm,  dear  Rachel" — and  a  melancholy  smile  crossed 
Bertha's  face — "if  you  can  really  keep  such  notions  in  your 
head." 

"And  it  is  true,  isn't  it?"  continued  Rachel,  earnestly. 
"  Not,  of  course,  quite  as  I  say — that  is  only  my  way  of  fancying 
it ;  but  you  know  God  does  love  us  now,  and  help  us  on,  and 
make  things  easy." 

"  Yes,  of  course" — but  Bertha's  answer  was  not  quite  as 
hearty  as  Rachel  had  expected ;  yet  she  went  on,  as  was  her 
wont,  with  her  own  thoughts. 

"  It  makes  such  a  difference  to  me  now  I  think  of  these 
things.  When  I  only  try  to  do  what  is  right,  it  all  seems  hard, 
and  I  get  cross  with  myself  because  I  don't  do  all  I  want  to 
do — it  is  just  like  a  cold,  sharp,  March  wind  blowing  over 
one ;  but  when  I  have  the  other  feeling,  it  is  like  sunshine, 
and  I  go  on  so  happily.     It  is  quite  a  pleasure  to  do  disagree- 


CLEVE    HALL.  385 

able  tliiuffs,  because,  you  know,  the  Hand  is  there  to  help  me ; 
and  when  they  are  done,  I  cau  turn  round  and  see  that  Grod  is 
pleased.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  undei'stand ;  it  is  almost 
like  seeing,  it  is  so  real." 

"  Yes,  very  real,  undoubtedly." 

The  full,  implicit,  childlike  belief  lit  up  Rachel's  thoixghtfui 
eyes  with  a  brilliancy  that  was  even  startling — and  the  flush 
of  excitement  was  on  her  cheek ;  and  in  her  eagerness  she 
paused  in  her  walk,  and  resting  her  hand  on  her  companion's 
arm,  looked  at  her  with  a  gaze  which  thrilled  through  Bertha's 
heart,  for  it  might  have  been  the  expression  of  an  angel's  love. 

Strange  !  the  power  which  touches  one  heart  by  the  influ- 
ence of  another.  That  look  did  its  work.  Not  then — Bertha's 
thoughts  were  too  occupied,  her  heart  was  too  full  of  home 
cares  to  understand  it — but  it  lingered  by  her  till  other  days, 
haunting  her  with  its  only  half-uuderstood  meaning ;  it  did 
more  than  Mr.  Lester's  instniction,  more  than  Mildred  Vivian's 
suggestions — for  it  was  the  soul  speaking  to  the  soul  ■  and  lie 
who  made  the  soul,  gave  its  language  a  power  beyond  words. 
It  was  Bertha's  first  vivid  perception  of  the  softening  influence 
of  the  motive  of  love. 

The  short  conversation  ended  there  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
begun.  Bertha  felt,  though  she  did  uot  quite  know  why,  that 
she  could  not  continue  it ;  and  Rachel  had  said  what  was  in 
her  mind,  and  relapsed  into  silence.  They  walked  for  a  short 
distance ;  Bertha  pondering  upon  Rachel's  simplicity,  wishing 
that  Ella  was  like  her,  and  thinking  that  she  might  have  been 
if  she  had  been  brought  up  in  the  same  way. 

That,  however,  was  a  mistake ;  the  two  characters  were 
essentially  unlike,  and  what  was  extremely  good  for  one  would 
have  been  very  bad  for  the  other. 

IMildred  Vivian's  personal  rules  and  suggestions  as  to  strict 
snlf-scrutiny  were  absolutely  necessary  for  Ella,  because  she 
never  took  the  trouble  to  thiidc  about  herself  at  all.  They 
would  have  been  injurious  to  Rachel,  by  engendering  self-con- 
scieusness,  and  irritating  a  naturally  sensitive  conscience  into 
a  state  of  constant  scnqjle  and  morbid  search  into  the  state  of 
lier  own  feelings.  Ella  i-equircd  to  be  taught  to  live  in  herself — 
Rachel  out  of  herself.  But  Bertha  was  not  quick  in  perceiving 
such  distinctions,  and  the  medicine  which  was  good  for  one, 
she  would  have  considered  good  for  all. 

Her  meditations  W(!r(!  not  left  long  uninterrupted;  a  uian's 
quick  tread  was  heard  iK'hiiid  her,  whilst  at  the  same  moment 
17 


386  CLEVE    HALL. 

a  rough  voice  called  out,  ''Why,  IMiss  CanipholK  you  walk  so 
fast,  one  would  think  you  were  running  for  a  wager." 

Bertha  stopped,  telling  Rachel  to  go  on,  and  let  her  speak 
to  Captain  Vivian  alone.  He  had  probal)ly,  she  thought,  some- 
thing to  communicate  to  her  about  Clement ;  and  since  his 
kindness  in  the  search  of  the  preceding  evening,  she  felt  a 
strange  mixture  of  suspicion  and  cordiality  towards  him. 

Captain  Vivian  came  up  and  held  out  his  hand:  "Good- 
day  to  you,  Miss  Campbell.  I  was  thinking  of  coming  up  to 
the  Lodge,  but  I  was  afraid  it  would  be  no  good." 

"Then  you  have  heard  nothing  r"'  said  Bertha,  in  a  tone 
of  keen  disappointment. 

He  shook  his  head  :  "Two  of  my  men  have  been  out,  round 
by  Cleve,  trying  to  hear  something  of  the  fellows  we  traced 
last  night ;  and  Ronald's  off  somewhere.  We  must  have  some 
tidings  before  night." 

"  I  trust  so;"  but  Bertha's  tone  was  not  hopeful. 

"  Come,  cheer  up ;  it's  no  use  to  be  cast  down,"  continued 
Captain  Vivian,  rather  good-naturedly.  "  'Tis  but  a  boy's 
freak,  after  all.  I'd  have  done  the  same  at  his  age.  But 
where  may  you  be  going  now?" 

"To  the  Hall.  Miss  Vivian  and  the  General  will  bo 
anxiovis." 

"  You  have  heard,  of  course,  that  the  old  General  is  ill," 
said  Captain  Vivian. 

"  Yes,  we  had  a  message.  He  had  an  attack  of  faintness 
last  night,  but  he  is  better  this  morning." 

"  He  does  not  leave  his  room  though,  and  at  his  age  attacks 
of  faintness  are  serious  matters." 

"  \''es,  but  Miss  Vivian  doesn't  seem  alarmed.  Is  there 
anything  else  you  think  we  can  do  V 

"  Nothing,   unless when    do   you  expect    Mr.    Lester 

home  ?" 

Notwithstanding  Bertha's  newly- awakened  friendliness, 
she  had  an  instinct  of  caution,  and  answered  ambiguously, 
that  it  was  not  quite  certain. 

"  It  ought  to  be.     Haven't  you  sent  a  message  to  him  ?" 

"  No."  Bertha  was  caught  in  a  snare  then,  and  felt  her- 
self obliged  to  add,  "  He  may  be  at  home  this  evening." 

"  Ah  !  very  good.  The  sooner  he  comes  the  better.  And 
his  friend  comes  with  him,  doesn't  he?" 

"  I  can't  say."     Bertha  looked  up  in  surprise. 

Captain  Vivian  laughed  :  "  You'll  think  I  have  a  wonderful 


CLEVE    HALL.  387 

knowledge  of  what  goes  on ;  but  it  so  happened  that  one  of 
my  men  "was  at  the  llectory  just  now,  about  this  business,  and 
heard  say  that  Mr.  Lester  was  expected,  and  perhaps  a  friend 
with  him ;  so  you  see  I'm  no  magician  after  alL" 
"  No."     Yet  Bertha  felt  uncomfortable. 
"They'll  be  here  by  the  five  o'clock  coach,  I  suppose?" 
"  Probably,  if  they  come  at  all." 

Captain  Vivian  considered  a  moment ;  then  his  eye  glanced 
at  Rachel,  who  was  standing  a  few  paces  off,  just  sufficient  to 
be  beyond  reach  of  hearing :  "  You  have  a  little  companion 
with  you,  I  see.     Is  she  going  to  the  Hall,  too?" 

"  Yes;  we  are  rather  in  a  hurry.  I  must  wish  you  good- 
b'ye,  if  you  really  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

"Nothing  more  just  now;  but  I  may  have.  What  time 
shall  you  be  coming  back  from  the  Hall  ?" 

"  I  can't  quite  tell;  it  depends  on  how  long  I  may  be  kept 
there."  * 

"  But  you'll  not  come  home  in  the  dark,  I  suppose  ?" 
"  I  shall  have  a  servant  with  me,  if  I  do,"  replied  Bertha, 
rather  surprised  at  his  thoughtful ness. 

"  Oh  !"  Not  a  very  well-satisfied  "  Oh  I"  and  Captain 
Vivian's  face  bore  a  gloomy  and  troubled  expression,  though 
he  tried  to  laugh,  and  said,  "  I  would  offer  myself  as  an  escort, 
onlv  I  know  you  would  not  accept  me." 

Bertha  showed  involuntarily  how  she  shrank  from  the 
suggestion,  and  she  began  a  hurried  excuse.  He  laughed 
again  :  "  Of  course  I  don't  off'er  myself;  only  perchance  you'll 
be  anxious  to  know  what  we've  been  doing,  and  as  it  wnll  be 
rather  out  of  my  way  to  come  to  the  Lodge,  perhaps  we  might 
manage  to  meet  again  half  way.  What  do  you  say  ?  Shall 
it  be  the  turning  into  Encombe  Lane,  just  as  you  get  out  of 
Cleve  Wood  ?" 

"  I  can't  say;  I  don't  know."  Bertha  did  not  at  all  like 
to  promise  a  second  interview.  Even  this^  short  though  it 
was,  made  her  nervous  and  impatient. 

"  Ronald  promised  to  let  me  know  everything,"  she  addod, 
after  a  moment's  thought.  "  Perhaps  you  could  be  kind 
enough  to  send  him  to  the  Lodge,  even  if  you  can't  come 
yourself.  I  don't  at  all  know  what  time  I  shall  be  returning 
from  the  Hall  myself,  or  whether  it  will  be  before  dusk  oi 
after; — the  days  close  in  so  soon." 

"  I  can't  say  for  Ronald  ;  he's  ofF  somewhere.    He  mightn't 


388  CLEVE   HALL. 

bo  back  befure  iniJniglit;  anyhow,  I  dare  say  you'll  hear  iicW3 
before  long." 

He  turned  from  her,  without  even  wishing  her  good-b'ye. 

]Jertha  fancied  she  had  made  him  angry,  and  feared  she 
might  be  throwing  away  a  hope  for  Clement.  But  in  another 
minute  he  returned  :  "  I  say,  do  you  chance  to  have  an  almanac 
in  your  pocket?  I  wanted  to  make  a  reckoning  about  some 
sea  matters  I  happen  to  be  acf|uaiutod  with,  which  might  help 
us  to  a  glimpse  of  Clement." 

Bertha  took  out  her  pocket-book,  and  asked  what  he  wanted 
to  know. 

"  I  can't  explain  exactly.  Perhaps  you'd  just  let  me  look 
one  minute,"  and  he  held  out  his  hand  for  it. 

Villain  though  he  was,  the  moment  was  too  anxioufj  for 
him  to  be  quite  calm.  The  faltering  tone  of  his  voice  struck 
Bertha,  and  she  instinctively  hesitated. 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  pardon;  I  didn't  mean  to  pry  into  secrets." 

''  There  are  no  secrets,"  said  Bertha,  slightly  blushing ; 
and  not  knowing  what  excuse  to  make,  she  was  ou  the  point 
of  giving  it  to  him.  At  that  instant  Rachel  ran  up  to  her : 
"  Oh  1  Miss  Campbell,  some  one  so  like  Clement — so  very  like  ! 
He  has  just  gone  down  the  lane  to  the  Common  :  do  come  !" 
And  Bertha  forgot  everything  else,  hurriedly  replaced  the  book 
iu  her  pocket,  and  ran  after  llachel. 

It  was  happy  for  her  that  Captain  Vivian's  muttered  ex- 
clamation was  lost  upon  her.  Standing  upon  a  bank  overlook- 
ing the  Common,  he  satisfied  himself  by  his  small  telescope, 
that  llachel  was  quite  mistaken,  and  then  walked  away  across 
the  fields  to  the  village. 

lie  went  on,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left — gloom 
on  his  brow,  passion  and  fierce  disappointment  in  his  heart. 
Could  he  but  have  possessed  himself  of  the  paper,  so  close 
within  his  grasp,  all  might  have  been  well.  But  the  o^ipor- 
tunity  was  gone,  and  now  what  remained  ? 

The  question  could  only  be  solved  by  an  interview  with 
Gofi",  and  to  his  cottage  Captain  Vivian  repaired.  His  own 
mind  was  bent  upon  escape.  Perhaps  he  was  weary  of  the 
load  which  for  eighteen  years  had  burdened  his  breast,  remind- 
ing him  day  and  night  that  the  hour  of  discovery  and  retribu- 
tion might  be  at  hand ;  perhaps,  too,  the  morning's  conversa- 
tion with  Ronald  had  touched  some  latent  feeling  of  remorse, 
which  made  him  long  to  flee  not  only  from  danger,  but  from 
the  scenes  associated  with  the  pangs  of  a  guilty  conscienc3. 


CLEVE    HALL.  380 

But  tlie  influence  of  the  comrade  witli  wliom  he  had  con- 
nected himself,  was  more  powerful  than  the  weak  impulse  of 
a  heart  softened  only  because  it  despaired  of  success.  When 
told  of  the  failure  in  the  attempt  to  obtain  the  paper  from 
Bertha,  Goff  only  scoffed  at  Captain  Vivian's  cowardice,  and 
insisted  that  if  the  undertaking  were  intrusted  to  him,  he 
would  even  now  gain  possession  of  it  before  the  evening 
closed  in. 

They  had  succeeded,  he  said,  hitherto;  Clement  was  in 
Iheir  power,  a  hostage.  Through  him  any  terms  which  tbey 
chose  to  impose  were  certain  to  be  accepted  by  Mr.  Vivian. 
Why  was  all  to  be  given  up  without  one  more  effort  ?  Even 
if  they  failed  as  regarded  the  paper,  he  would,  if  it  depended 
upon  himself,  brave  the  question,  and  by  threatening  Clement's 
life,  force  Mr.  Vivian  to  destroy  it.  It  was  not  even  certain, 
indeed,  that  the  paper  was  that  which  they  imagined — not- 
withstanding all  they  had  learnt  from  Mr.  Lester's  servant, 
they  were  acting  only  upon  suspicion ;  and  if  it  were  not, 
uothing  could  be  more  senseless  than  to  flee  and  leave  the 
game  in  their  enemy's  hand. 

His  arguments  were  plausible,  and  aided  by  one  which  he 
had  always  found  sufficient  to  stimulate  the  sinking  spirit  of 
his  companion.  To  bind  Mr.  Vivian  to  secrecy  would  be  to 
complete  the  revenge  already  taken,  by  shutting  him  out  for 
ever  from  the  hopeof  restoration  to  the  General's  favor;  whilst 
by  driving  him  from  Encombe,  and  probably  from  England, 
they  would  be  left  free  to  carry  on  their  schemes  as  before. 
Goff  dwelt  upon  these  points  cunningly  and  successfully ;_  yet 
it  was  long  before  any  fixed  agreement  could  be  attained 
between  minds  so  differently  bent,  and  each  with  a  deeply- 
rooted  selfishness  of  purpose :  Goff— desperately  bold,  and 
willing  to  run  all  hazards  for  the  furtherance  of  his  own 
schemes,  and  the  opportunity  of  pursuing  his  profitable  trade 
at  Encombe;  Captain  Vivian  shrinking  from  the  prospect  of 
meeting  the  man  whom  he  had  injured,  dreading  the  evils 
Avhich  his  misdeeds  had  brought  upon  him,  and  brooding  in 
bitterness  of  heart  over  llonald's  alienation  and  his  own  de- 
grading position. 

A  compromise  between  the  two  was  at  length  cffecied.  It 
was  arranged  that  ('aptain  Vivian  should  linger  upon  the  shore 
or  amongst  the  clifls  till  dusk,  taking  care  to  conceal  himself 
carefully  from  observation  ;  wliilst  G(»ff  should  be  on  the  watch 
for  the  return  of  Beitlia  IVuin  the  Hall,  when  he  was  to  make 


390  CLEVE   HALL. 

anotlier  attempt  to  obtaia  possession  of  the  precious  paper. 
In  the  event  of  success,  imuieiliate  notice  was  to  be  given  to 
Captain  Vivian,  who  might  tlien  put  in  practice  the  scheme 
which  he  liail  so  long  phmned — meet  Mr.  Vivian,  threaten 
him  witli  Clement's  perilous  position,  as  certain  to  be  engaged 
in  a  smuggling  affray,  and  induce  him,  in  the  hope  of  saving 
his  boy  from  danger  and  public  disgrace,  to  agree  to  any  terms 
of  silence  with  regard  to  the  past  which  his  cousin  might 
demand. 

If,  on  the  contrary,  the  important  docuitent  on  which  so 
much  depended  could  not  be  secured,  Captain  Vivian  still 
insisted  upon  escaping  without  delay.  A  boat  was  therefore 
to  be  in  readiness  which  would  carry  him  oif  to  his  vessel. 
In  that  case,  Clement  was  to  be  left  to  his  fate.  Ronald,  the 
only  person  likely  to  help  him,  was  a  prisoner,  and  to  remain 
so  till  night ;  there  would,  consequently,  bo  no  one  to  interfere 
with  the  iniquitous  scheme,  so  cruelly  laid,  to  ruin  him  in  his 
grandfather's  eyes,  and  raise,  if  possible,  a  still  more  formi- 
dable barrier  than  that  which  now  existed  between  Mr.  Vivian 
and  the  General.  All  minor  arrangements  as  to  Ronald's  re- 
lease and  future  movements  were  left  till  the  main  points  were 
settled.  GofF  agreed  apparently  to  the  plans  proposed ;  but 
he  had  his  own  views  for  the  future,  and  his  own  plans  as  to 
their  furtherance.  They  were  such  as  could  not  be  communi- 
cated ;  yet  in  the  secrecy  of  his  heart  there  lay  a  desperate 
and  fixed  resolution  that,  come  what  might,  the  stake  for  which 
he  had  already  dared  so  much  should  not  be  yielded  without 
a  struggle  even,  if  it  were  necessary,  to  death. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 


(^  LOOM  and  silence  brooded  over  the  oak-pannelled  apart- 
X  mcnts,  the  deserted  lobbies,  and  mazy  corridors  of  Cleve 
Hall.  Stealthily  passed  the  measured  footsteps  of  the  old 
servants ;  and  when,  occasionally,  a  lighter  or  a  quicker  tread 
ventured  to  break  upon  the  stillness,  it  seemed  a  profanation 
of  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the  stately  mansion.  General  Vi- 
vian would  not  leave  his  dressing-room;  Greaves  waited  upon 
him,  Mildred  sat  with  him,  Ella  occasionally  went  in  and  out 


CLEVE    HALL.  301 

with  messages.  He  was  not  ill,  it  was  said,  and  he  would  not 
consent  to  see  a  doctor.  That  was  not  sui'prising ;  he  hated 
doctors,  and  professed  to  have  no  faith  in  them ;  and  he  was 
never  known  to  be  nervous  about  himself.  He  often  talked 
of  death,  but  never  seemed  to  realize  in  himself  the  possibility 
of  dyins ;  and  he  was  not  coing  to  die  now,  as  far  as  any  one 
couid  judge.  The  attack  of  the  preceding  evening  had  passed 
and  left  no  very  marked  effects.  Yet  he  would  neither  leave 
his  room  nor  enter  into  conversation,  nor  do  anything  except 
attend  to  what  he  called  necessary  business.  That  he  appeai^ed 
to  be  engrossed  in,  only  Mildred  saw  that  his  eye  was  often 
fixed  as  in  inward  thought  when  it  seemed  to  be  resting  on  the 
papers  or  book  before  him ;  whilst  his  hearing,  lately  rather 
impaired,  had  suddenly  acquired  a  singular  keenness — the  dis- 
tant opening  or  shutting  of  a  door,  the  roll  of  a  wagon,  even 
the  shouts  of  children  in  the  distance,  were  all  observed.  No, 
whatever  there  might  be  of  mental  suffering,  there  was  nothing 
of  death  in  the  quick  flash  of  his  eye  and  the  instantaneous 
turn  of  his  head ;  but  rather  life, — vivid,  active,  most  keenly 
sensitive,  yet  crusted  over  by  an  exterior  so  petrified  that  only 
those  who  watched  him  narrowly,  and  understood  him  by  the 
experience  of  years,  could  have  traced  the  current  that  flowed 
underneath  it. 

Mildred  seldom  sat  with  him  in  the  morning;  he  said 
generally  that  it  was  an  interruption  to  him,  but  now  he  could 
scarcely  bear  her  out  of  his  sight.  Yet  he  spoke  to  her  sel- 
dom, and  then  never  upon  the  subject  so  paramount  in  its 
importance  to  both.  It  had  come,  and  it  was  gone.  Who 
could  tell  what  he  thought  of  it,  or  how  it  would  influence 
him. 

Mildred  was  brave  by  nature — the  gift  of  moral  courage 
had  been  hers  from  infancy — yet  she  could  not  venture  to 
break  in  upon  this  ominous  silence.  Her  father's  character 
was  still  an  unknown  and  unexplored  region.  Though  tliey 
had  lived  together,  one  in  interest  and  in  love,  for  years,  she 
could  rarely  venture  to  speculate  upon  the  way  in  wliich 
events,  or  words,  or  actions  would  be  taken  by  him.  She  could 
not  say  but  that  by  attempting  to  turn  the  stream  into  one 
channel,  it  would,  in  resistance,  be  divei-ted  into  the  opposite 
course.  All  with  him  was  artificial ; — not  untrue  or  ])ut  on 
for  show;  but  his  was  a  heart  which  had  been  drilled  into 
obedience  to  self-imposed  laws,  and  the  free  instincts  of  nature 


392  CLEVE    HALL. 

had  been  cnubctl  till  it  iiiiiilit  have  scoinod  that  the}'  had  ceased 
to  act. 

Ijonc;  and  weavj  were  the  hours  that  luoniins!;;  memory 
linjicriiig  upon  the  past,  fear  busy  with  the  future,  and  a  sharp, 
present  anxiety  goadina:  the  natural  despondency  incident  to 
Buch  a  positiou  into  suflcring  which  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  conceal. 

Clement's  disappearance  had  been  known  at  the  Hall  on 
the  preceding  evening,  yet  not  so  as  to  occasion  any  pecidiar 
uneasiness.  J>ut  in  the  morning,  soon  after  Mildred  and  Ella 
had  finished  their  breakfast  together,  another  message  brought 
the  intelligence  that  he  had  not  been  at  home  all  night,  that 
a  search  had  been  instituted,  ponds  dragged,  messengers  sent 
out, — but  hitherto  all  in  vain,  except  that  there  was  a  report 
of  his  having  been  seen  in  company  with  some  desj^erate-look- 
ing  men  on  the  road  to  Cleve. 

JMildred's  head  turned  sick  and  faint  with  fear.  Almost 
her  first  thought  was  of  her  father,  and  strict  orders  were 
instantly  given  that  the  General  was  not  to  be  alarmed, — it 
might  do  him  injuiy.  Greaves,  who  Avas  the  only  person 
that  ever  waited  upon  him,  promised  to  be  careful.  Yet  jMil- 
dred  could  not  be  satisfied  unless  she  sat  in  his  room ;  and  it 
was  a  source  of  infinite  thankfulness  that,  on  this  most  trying 
morning,  he  was  not  only  willing  but  eveu  desirous  of  having 
her  with  him.  Still,  every  time  the  door  opened  she  fancied 
that  some  one  was  about  to  enter  with  painful'  tidings ;  and 
Ella's  careworn  face  was  sufficient  in  itself  to  have  excited 
the  General's  remark,  if  his  thoughts  had  not  been  otherwise 
and  so  intently  preoccupied. 

''  You  had  better  sit  down  quietly  and  read  ;  you  disturb 
me  coming  in  and  out  so  often,"  said  the  General,  impatiently, 
as  Ella  entered  for  about  the  sixth  time,  to  glance  at  Mildred, 
and  tell  her  by  mute  signs  that  nothing  new  had  been  heard. 

"  Thank  you.  Grandpapa,  but  I  have  my  music  to  practise," 
and  Ella  went  out  again. 

The  General  did  not  like  a  will  contrary  to  his  own,  how- 
ever small  the  matter  in  question  might  be,  and  Mildred 
seeing  it,  ventured  upon  an  apology:  "Ella  won't  come  in 
again,  Sir;  she  was  only  anxious  to  see  whether  I  was  com- 
fortable." 

"  She  might  have  trusted  that  to  me.  You  are  not  uncoui. 
fortable,  are  you  ?" 

"Oh,  no*!  not  at  all,  but — "  Mildred  fancied  she  hear6 


CLEVE    HALL.  393 

distant  voices,  and  stopped  to  listen  ;  then  remembered  she 
had  better  not  do  anything  to  attract  attention,  and  niurmnreJ 
something  unintelligible,  whilst  the  General  looked  at  her  a 
moment  in  surprise,  and  continiTcd  his  writing. 

A  long  silence  followed — in  the  room,  at  least;  below  Ihere 
certainly  were  loud  voices.  Mildred  was  in  an  agony  to  stop 
them,  but  the  General  took  no  notice  until  two  persons  were 
heard  talking  in  the  lobby  leading  to  his  room  :  ''  Iliug  the 
bell,  will  you,  Mildred  ?  I  think  it  is  within  your  reach.  I 
won't  have  that  noise  in  the  house." 

Mildred  rang,  and  the  General  laid  down  his  pen,  prepara- 
tory to  a  reprimand. 

Greaves  entered,  turning  the  handle  of  the  door  noiselessly. 

"  Who  is  that  talking  in  the  passage,  Greaves  ?" 

"Mrs.  Robinson,  Sir" — and  Greaves  looked  at  Mildred, 
doubting  how  much  more  he  was  at  liberty  to  say. 

"  Mrs.  Robinson  !  What  is  she  come  for  ?" 

''To  speak  to  Miss  Vivian,  I  believe,  Sir,  upon  business. 
I  was  just  coming  to  say  so." 

"Let  her  come  in.  There  are  no  secrets,  I  suppose, 
Mildred." 

Mildred  turned  very  pale;  but  the  General  was  busied 
with  himself  rather  than  with  her.  He  was  working  himself 
up  into  stern  coldness.  Of  all  persons  he  would  least  have 
desired  to  show  weakness,  either  in  feeling  or  in  action,  before 
Mrs.  Robinson. 

It  was  a  curious  meeting.  She  came  in  as  stiff  and  rigid 
as  himself,  and  made  her  respectful  yet  rather  proud  curtsey, 
and  sat  down  at  a  little  distance  from  the  table — all  without 
speaking.  And  the  General  bent  his  head,  and  hoped  she  was 
well,  with  the  stiff  civility  of  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school ; 
but  the  merest  stranger  might  have  perceived  that  they  did 
not  like  each  other. 

Mildred  broke  the  silence  :  she  asked  whether  Mrs.  Robin- 
sun  had  come  about  parish  business. 

"  Not  exactly,  Ma'am.  JMr.  Lester,  they  say,  is  to  be  home 
this  evening,  so  I  could  go  to  him  if  I  wanted  anything." 

The  observation  was  made  quite  unconcernedly,  yet  IMildrcd 
read  in  the  tone  that  it  was  intended  for  her  comfort. 

"  My  lodger  comes  back  to  Encombo  with  Mr.  Lester,  T 
believe.  Ma'am,"  continued  Mrs.  Robinson;  and  Mildred 
involuntarily  made  an  eager  gesture,  which  the  General  per- 


394  CLEVE    HALL. 

ceivcd,  tliiHigh  his  eyes  never  jnovcd  apparently  fmia  hia 
letter. 

"  You  have  had  a  lodger,  have  you,  Mrs.  Robinson?"  he 
said,  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  Sir,  a  little  while  ago." 

"A  little  while?  but  how'long?" 

*< I  can't  say  exactly  how  long,  Sir;  it  might  have  been 
three  months  or  more." 

'*  Oh  !"  the  General's  pen  moved  with  greater  decision 

"  Does  he  come  with  Mr.  Lester,  did  you  say?"  asked  Mil- 
dred; and  in  spite  of  herself  her  voice  trembled. 

*'  I  believe  so,  Ma'am,  but  I  don't  know  whether  he  .is 
going  to  stay  at  the  Farm  again." 

The  General  laid  down  his  pen  and  listened. 

Mrs.  Robinson  went  on,  quite  unmoved  :  "  I  was  going  to 
send  down  to  the  Rectory  to  learn  for  certain,  but  our  farm 
people  are  all  engaged.  They  have  been  all  day,  and  I  don't 
know  when  they  will  be  at  leisure ;  and  as  I  was  coming  up 
here,  I  thought  I  would  ask.  Ma'am,  whether  you  had  heard 
anything  about  3Ir.  Lester's  plans.  Eut,  perhaps,  you  haven't, 
so  I  won't  disturb  you ;"  and  Mrs.  Robinson  rose  from  her 
seat,  and  was  about  to  retire,  when  the  General  spoke  again  : 
"  You  don't  take  in  lodgers,  Mrs.  Robinson,  do  you,  generally?" 

"  Only  sometimes,  Sir,  in  the  summer.  This  was  a  very 
civil-spoken  gentleman." 

"  And  he  is  coming  again,  you  say  ?" 

<'  There  is  a  talk  of  it,  Sir." 

"  I  thought  you  said  he  was  to  be  here  with  Mr.  Lester." 

A  scrutinizing  glance  accompanied  the  words,  which  might 
have  perplexed  any  one  but  Mrs.  Robinson.  She,  however, 
was  perfectly  imperturbable,  and  answered,  "  He  may  come 
with  Mr.  Lester,  Sir,  but  I  can't  be  certain.  I  thought  Miss 
Mildred  might  have  heard.  I  won't  disturb  you  any  more. 
Sir,  now.  I  wish  you  good  morning."  A  respectful  curtsey  ! 
and  Mrs.  Robinson  addressed  Mildred,  as  though  merely  com- 
pleting her  sentence  :  "  If  you  were  coming  into  your  bedroom, 
Ma'am,  I  might  show  you  the  patterns  of  print  for  the  school 
children ;  I  got  them  at  Cleve  yesterday.  3Iayn't  I  help 
you?"  Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  handed  to  'Mil- 
dred the  crutches  which  were  her  support  in  walking,  and 
offered  her  arm. 

Mildred  turned  to  the  General :  "  My  dear  father,  I  shall 


CLEVE    HALL.  395 

be  back  a^aia  directly;  you  don't  waut  anything  before  I  go, 
do  you?" 

"Nothing."  The  General  looked  as  if  he  would  have 
said  more,  but  Mrs.  Robinson  did  not  give  hini  the  ojtpor- 
tuuity.  She  fidgeted  with  Mildred's  shawl,  and  talked  about 
the  cold,  and  hurried  her  to  the  door.  The  Greneral  called 
out,  "  3iildred,  you  must  be  back  directly ;  I  waut  you  to  copy 
a  letter  for  me." 

Mrs.  Hobinson  answered  for  her,  with  another  curtsey : 
"I  won't  keep  Miss  Mildred  five  minutes,  Sir;"  and  the 
Greneral,  having  no  other  excuse  for  detaining  them,  sutfered 
them  to  go. 

"The  General  looks  ill  this  morning,  Ma'am,"  was  Mrs. 
Robinson's  first  remark,  after  the  door  closed  behind  them. 
"He  fainted  last  night,"  said  Mildred. 
"  I  heard  so,  Ma'am ;  perhaps  there  wasn't  so  much  harm 
iu  that.     He  has  kept  clear  of  Master  Clement." 

Mildred  stopped,  and  leaned  against  the  door  of  her  own 
chamber,  which  she  had  just  reached  :  "  You  are  come  to  tell 
me  something  about  him,  Granny." 

"Just  come  in,  my  dear,  and  lie  down  for  a  moment.  I'll 
go  presently  and  tell  Greaves  to  take  the  General's  lunch  up, 
and  then  he  won't  fuss  so  at  your  staying." 

She  led  Mildred  into  the  room,  placed  her  on  the  sofa,  and 
continued,  without  requiring  any  questions  to  be  asked ;  "  He's 
off  with  the  smugglers,  Miss  Mildred — certain ;  and  the  Cap- 
tain's in  some  way  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

Mildred  caught  her  hand:  "Quick,  quick;  how  do  j'ou 
know?" 

But  Mrs.  Robinson  was  not  to  be  turned  aside  from  her 
own  course :  "  One  of  our  farm  boys  was  coming  over  the  hills 
last  night,  behind  Miss  Campbell  and  the  children.  He  saw 
Master  Clement  stay  behind,  as  they  were  near  the  village ; 
the  Captain  was  close  by — he'd  been  following  thera.  He 
went  up  to  Master  Clement,  and  they  talked  a  little, — the 
boy  saw  him  go  off  with  the  Captain  to  the  Grange,  for  his 
road  lay  the  same  way." 

"We  heard  something  of  that  last  night/'  interrupted 
Mildred. 

"  The  Captain  says  he  went  home  afterwards,"  continued 
Mrs.  Robinson;  "but  the  boy  declares  that,  as  he  was  going 
across  the  Common  an  hour  later,  he  heard  voices  off  towards 
the  I'oint,  and  one  he  was  sure  was  Master  Clcnunit's.      He 


300  CLEVE    HALL. 

liad  a  message  to  carry  to  Rock  Farm,  out  by  Cleve,  and  Lc< 
went;  and  coming  back,  there  was  a  light  upon  the  Point,  aa 
if  men  were  moving  about  with  a  lantern,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
it  disappeared.  Joe  was  going  along  the  path  near  the  edge 
of  the  clift'  then.  He  didn't  like  much,  he  says,  to  go  and 
put  himself  in  the  way  of  meeting  them,  for  he  knew  they 
must  be  folks  that  wouldn't  fancy  being  interfered  with ;  and 
80  he  kept  quiet  amongst  the  buslu's  and  the  furze  for  some 
little  time ;  and  he  declares  that  he  quite  plainly  heard  a  party 
of  them  scramble  down.  Master  Clement  was  one,  he's  pretty 
certain,  but  he  thinks  that  he  didn't  much  wish  to  go.  The 
boy  didn't  wait  to  see  what  became  of  them ;  only  he  knows 
all  the  boats  along  the  beach,  and  he  says  that  Mark  Wood's 
was  there  in  the  morning,  and  it's  not  there  now.  And  Mark 
himself  isn't  at  home;  and  the  child  Barney's  been  ques- 
tioned, and  they've  got  out  of  him  that  his  fatlier  had  settled 
beforehand  to  be  away  all  night.  Putting  things  together, 
it's  pretty  clear,  Ma'am,  what  the  young  gentleman's  been 
after." 

No  voice  caine.  Mildred's  hands  were  folded  together,  and 
her  countenance  expressed  the  most  intense  dejection. 

"  I  shall  go  and  tell  Greaves  to  take  up  the  General's 
luncheon ;  and  you'll  have  yours  brought  in  here,  my  dear," 
continued  Mrs.  Robinson.  "  It  was  best  for  you  to  know  the 
worst  at  once."  Not  waiting  for  Mildred's  assent,  she  departed 
to  give  her  orders. 

Poor  Mildred  !  she  did  indeed  feel  crushed.  Edward — • 
Mr.  Lester — Bertha;  none  covild  help  her  now.  Far  better 
than  others  did  she  know  the  fixed  prejudice,  the  stern  laws 
which  governed  her  father's  conduct.  Far  more  truly  could 
she  read  that  martyr  spirit  of  self-torture,  which  had  shown 
itself  for  years  in  General  Vivian's  every  word  and  action. 
If  there  had  been  a  glimmering  of  hope  before,  it  had  faded 
since  the  preceding  evening,  and  now  it  was  utterly  quenched. 
An  offence  deadly  in  the  rigid  judgment  of  General  Vivian, 
even  if  capable  of  extenuation  in  the  ej'es  of  the  world,  had 
been  laid  to  her  brother's  charge ;  and  when  her  last  hope 
was  in  the  acknowledgment  of  his  foult,  and  a  final  appeal  tc 
meicy,  on  the  plea  that  its  punishment  had  been  borne  unmur- 
muringly  for  eighteen  years,  a  further  excuse  for  severity  was 
to  be  found  in  the  fact,  that  the  sins  of  the  father  had  descended 
as  an  heirloom  to  the  son — that  Clement  was  what  his  father 
Lad  been,  when  he  brought  sorrow  and  desolation  to  Cleve. 


CLEYE   nALL.  397 

Mrs.  Robinson  returned.  Greaves  was  gone  up  to  the 
General  with  his  luncheon,  and  would  take  care  that  Miss 
Mildred  should  not  be  wanted  again  just  yet;  only  she  re- 
marked that  it  would  not  do  to  stay  away  very  long — people 
might  come  upon  business  to  see  the  General,  and  talk ;  and 
the  story  was  getting  about  fast. 

"  He  must  know  it  before  long,"  replied  Mildred,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  It  mayn't  be  till  to-morrow,  Ma'am  ;  and  before  that  Mr. 
Lester  and  Master  Edward  will  be  here,  and  it  will  be  better 
broken  to  him." 

"And  that  unhappy  boy!  What  will  become  of  him?" 
said  Mildred. 

"  My  husband  and  two  of  the  men  will  be  down  upon  the 
shore  to-night  waiting,  if  they  should  land  again,"  replied 
Mrs.  Robinson.  "But  it's  scarcely  to  be  thought  they'll  be 
back  so  soon.  It's  the  spirit  of  a  Campbell  that's  in  him," 
she  muttered  to  herself. 

Mildred  looked  at  her  sadly  and  repa'oachfully  :  "  A  Vivian, 
rather,  Granny ;  Edward  might  have  done  the  same." 

"  Master  Edward  would  never  have  taken  to  such  a  low 
set,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Robinson,  with  sudden  animation. 
"  When  he  consorted  with  the  Captain,  he  was  not  at  all  the 
man  he  is  now.  No,  no.  Miss  Mildred;  my  dear,  it's  the 
Campbell  "blood ;  and  when  once  it's  in,  there's  no  rooting  it 
out." 

Mildred  would  not  argue  the  point,  for  Mrs.  Robinson,  like 
the  General,  was  strong  in  her  prejudices.  She  could  only 
murmur,  "  What  tidings  for  Edward  and  Mr.  Lester  !" 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  going  on  to  Cleve  to  meet  them," 
continued  Mrs.  Robinson.  "  It  would  be  better  for  Master 
Edward  to  hear  it  from  some  one  who  is  up  to  things,  and  can 
lielp  him  to  keep  his  own  counsel.  He  was  never  to  be  trusted 
wdien  things  took  him  by  surprise." 

Mildred  took  her  hand  affectionately.  "  Always  kind  and 
thoughtful,"  she  said.  "  Yes,  it  would  be  better ;  but,  dear 
jranny,  it  is  giving  yourself  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

Mrs.  Robinson  drew  back  her  hand  rather  proudly.  "  I 
was  not  one  of  the  family  for  eight-and-twenty  years  for 
nothing,"  she  said.  "Who  should  I  take  trouble  for  but 
those  who  are  like  my  own  kin?  Master  Edward  will  bo 
wishing  tc  put  himself  foremost  in  the  search ;  but  he 
mustn't." 


308  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  No,  indeed.  But,  Granny,  uiy  father  must  know  of  his 
beinn'  here  before  many  days  are  over,  lie  has  been  told  now 
that  he  is  in  England  " 

"Know  iti*  does  he?"  Alino.^t  for  the  linst  time  Mrs. 
Ilobinson's  face  ehanged  color,  and  she  spoke  anxiously ; 
''  Ah  !  Miss  iMildred,  my  dear,  who  had  the  courage  to  tell 
him  ?" 

*'  1  had,  Granny;  there  was  no  one  else." 

Mrs.  Itobinsoa  shook  her  head  sorrowfully:  "Ah!  no 
one.  It  has  all  come  upon  you.  Strange  that  it  hasn't  car- 
ried you  to  your  grave.  But  he's  softened ;  surely  he's  soft- 
ened?" 

"I  fear  not.  You  saw  him  just  now.  He  has  been  like 
that  ever  since — sharp  in  manner;  and  when  he  has  spoken, 
saying  only  a  few  words." 

"  Conscience  troubles  him,"  was  Mrs.  Bobinson's  comment. 
"  I  knew  he  had  a  meaning  in  his  questions." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it,  too.  lie  is  full  of  suspicion.  He  thinks 
we  are  all  plotting.  What  will  it  be  when  he  hears  about 
Clement?" 

"  He  will  say,  as  I  do,  that  it  is  the  Campbell  blood,  and 
there's  no  hope  for  it.  Oh  !  Master  Edward  ! — the  marriage 
was  the  worst  thing  of  all.  But  you  mustn't  stay  here,  my 
dear.  The  General  will  be  asking  questions,  and  it  will  never 
do  to  let  him  know  what's  going  on  till  Mr.  Lester  comes.  Let 
me  help  you  back  to  him,  and  then  I'll  set  off  for  Cleve." 

Mildred  could  scarcely  summon  resolution  sufficient  to 
move ;  and  said  she  dreaded  encountering  the  General's  ques- 
tions, and  felt  she  had  a  thousand  other  things  to  say  to  iMrs. 
Robinson. 

"  It  won't  do  to  wait,  my  dear,  or; — hark  !  There's  a  visi- 
ter. 1  heard  the  bell."  She  lt.ft  i^Iildred,  and  went  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs  to  listen. 

Her  face  was  discomposed  when  she  returned:  "Miss 
Campbell  and  Miss  Bachel.  Miss  Campbell  wants  to  see  you. 
We  mustn't  let  the  General  know  she  is  hei'e.  He  is  not  in  a 
mood  for  that.  Hadn't  I  better  send  Miss  Ella  to  talk  to  him  ? 
and  perhaps  he  will  let  her  copy  his  letter." 

Mildred  smiled  gratefully:  "So  like  you,  and  the  old 
times.  Granny;  managing  for  every  one.  Perhaps  it  will  be 
best ;  and  Miss  Campbell  can  come  and  see  me  here.  And 
Rachel/' — she  considered  a  momentj — "  Rachel  must  wait  in 


CLEVE    HALL.  399 

the  moriung-room.     Thank  you  so  much  for  arraDjiing  it,"  she 
added,  as  she  pressed  Mrs.  Robinsou's  hand  afFectiouatcly. 
"  No  thanks,  my  dear;  but  God  help  j'ou  and  all  of  us." 
The  prayer  was  needed,  for  Mildred's  complexion  was  of  a 
livid  paleness ;  and  even  that  one  day  of  anxiety  seemed  to 
have  made  her  cheeks  thinner,  and  shrunk  her  sliirht  frame. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 


BERTHA  and  Mildred  met  as  old  friends.  The  one  com- 
mon fear  had  melted  away  whatever  remains  of  by  gone 
antipathy  might  have  been  lingering  in  their  minds.  13ertha 
entered,  tired  with  her  walk  and  worn  with  suspense  and 
watchfulness;  but  Mildred's  hearty  <' Thank  you  for  com- 
ing; I  have  been  hoping  you  would,"  cheered  and  encouraged 
her;  and  when  she  unfastened  her  bonnet,  and  sat  down 
by  the  fire,  they  might  have  appeared  to  be  even  sisters  in 
cordiality. 

Mildred  began  the  conversation,  for  she  had  the  most  to 
tell.  Mrs.  Robinson's  intelligence  had  given  a  definite  form 
to  her  fears,  and  so,  after  the  first  startling  announcement,  had 
in  a  measure  relieved  her.  She  believed,  she  said,  that  Cle- 
ment's absence  was  a  boyish  freak, — the  love  of  adventure, — 
that  he  had  gone  for  a  sail,  and  would  return.  She  thought 
they  might  expect  him  at  any  moment ;  and  her  mind  did  not 
rest  upon  the  thought  of  him  with  overwhelming  uneasiness, 
except  so  far  as  his  conduct  might  ultimately  influence  his 
father's  fortunes. 

And  Bertha  sat  still  and  listened,  taking  in  what  was  said, 
yet  not  able  to  receive  comfort  from  the  removal  of  suspense. 
Clement  was  more,  personally,  to  her  than  his  father  could  be ; 
and  Mrs.  Robinson's  intelligence  confirmed  the  worst  sus])i- 
cions  which  she  had  entertained.  Mildred  had  lived  in  retire- 
ment, hearing  only  of  evil,  never  being  brought  in  contact  with 
it.  Bertha  had,  from  circumstances,  learnt  tlie  real  facts  and 
roughnesses  of  life ;  and  the  dangers  which  to  the  one  were  a 
dream  of  imaginntion,  were  to  the  ether  a  vivid  and  terrible 
reality.  When  Mildred  at  length  paused,  ]icrtha  sat  for  sonic 
time  in  deep  thought.      She  was  pondering  in  her  own  mind 


400  CLEVE    HALL. 

a  question  wliicli  had  sugfjestcd  itself  wliilst  Mildred  had  been 
speaking — the  paper  in  her  possession,  .should  it  be  shown  to 
her? — or  would  it  be  a  breach  of  confidence?  She  could  not 
decide,  and  the  doubt  made  her  reply  in  an  abstracted  tone  to 
Mildred's  inquiry,  whether  she  could  think  of  anything 
necessary  to  be  done  on  Clement's  account  before  Mr.  Lester's 
return. 

"  You  are  not  satisfied  with  what  Mrs.  Rubinsou  says  ?"  con- 
tinued Mildred,  anxiously. 

"  Not  quite.  Did  you  tell  me, — did  you  say  that  the  farm 
people  would  be  on  the  shore  watching  for  him  ?" 

"  Yes;  it  seemed  all  that  could  be  done.  And  Mrs.  Robin- 
son herself  is  gone  to  Cleve  to  meet  Mr,  Lester.  lie  Avill  be 
here,  if  he  comes  at  all,  soon  after  five." 

"  There  must  be  no  if,"  murmured  Bertha  to  herself.  She 
rose  and  looked  out  of  the  window ;  it  commanded  a  distant 
view  of  the  sea. 

Mildred  followed  her  with  her  eye :  "You  don't  see  any- 
thing r"' 

*'  Not  close.  There  are  several  vessels  far  out  in  the  horizon. 
How  the  days  close  in  I" — Bertha  took  out  her  watch  :  "  five 
and  twenty  minutes  to  four." 

Mildred  started  :  "  And  I  have  been  away  from  my  fiither 
all  this  time;  yet  there  seems  a  great  deal  to  say  still." 

A  quick  step  was  heard  along  the  passage,  and  Ella  ran  into 
the  room. 

"Aunt  Mildred,  grandpapa  wants  you  this  minute — this 
very  minute ;  let  me  help  you  ?"  She  gave  Mildred  her  arm. 
"  Aunt  Bertha,  I  will  be  back  with  you  in  a  minute ;  please 
wait  for  me." 

"  And  bring  Rachel  up,''  said  Mildred ;  "  she  must  be 
tired  of  being  alone.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  come  back ;  but 
you  will  rest  here  without  me,"  she  added,  addressing  Bertha. 

"  Shan't  you  come  back  ?"  said  Bertha.     "  I  wished " 

"Grandpapa  is  in  .such  a  hurry,"  whispered  Ella. 

Yet  Mildred  lingered  :  "  I  don't  think  there  is  anything  to 
settle,  or  that  we  can  do." 

"  Grandpapa  wants  you  to  help  him  to  find  a  paper,"  con* 
tinned  Ella — "one  he  has  lost  out  of  the  box  in  bis  study. 
lie  has  had  the  box  up,  and  has  been  looking  for  it." 

Mildred  turned  pale,  and  sat  down  :  "  I  don't  feel  very  well, 
Ella  dear.  Tell  grandpapa  I  will  come  to  him  as  soon  as  ' 
possibly  can."     Ella  left  the  room. 


CLEVE    HALL.  401 

Bertlia  gave  Mildred  some  water.  "  Thank  you.  I  ought 
not  to  be  so  silly ;  but  it  brought  back  last  night  to  me.  I 
thought  I  would  not  say  anything  till  I  had  seen  Mr.  Lester ; 
but  1  had  better  tell  you  now.  There  is  no  real  hope  for  ' 
Edward.  He  drew  a  bill  for  five  thousand  pounds,  payable 
after — after  my  father's  death.  That  was  his  oflFeuce — you 
understand  now.  But  no,  you  can't — no  one  .-an  understand 
uiy  father  who  has  not  lived  with  him." 

Bertha  put  down  the  glass  upon  the  table,  and  said,  very 
quietly,  "  I  had  heard  of  this." 

"  And  I  had  not  !"  exclaimed  Mildred.  "  Does  Mr.  Lester 
know  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  think  he  must.  I  think  General  Vivian 
must  have  given  him  the  paper." 

"  He  said  it  was  mislaid.  Last  night  he  looked  for  it,"  said 
Mildred,  hurriedly.  "Once" — and  she  sighed  deeply — "I 
fancied  it  was  a  mistake,  and  that  his  mind  was  wandering. 
He  didn't  mention  it  again  this  morning;  but  then  he  was  not 
up  till  late,  and  he  has  had  business  ever  since  he  was  dressed." 

'■  Is  this  it  ?"  Bertha  produced  the  paper  from  her  pocket- 
book,  unfolded  it,  and  gave  it  into  Mildred's  hands. 

Tears,  bitter,  scalding  tears  of  anguish  coursed  each  other 
down  Mildred's  worn  face ;  less,  perhaps,  for  the  offence  which 
had  been  so  deeply  repented,  than  for  the  agonizing  remem- 
brance of  the  direful  evils  which  had  followed  in  the  train  of 
that  one  act — death,  desolation,  exile;  and  she  laid  her  head 
upon  Bertha's  shoulder,  and  murmured,  "  Edith  !  my  sister  ! 
if  he  had  told  her  the  truth,  she  would  not  have  died." 

She  held  the  paper  in  her  trembling  hands,  and  tried  to 
read  it. 

Bertha  bent  her  head  down  to  examine  it :  ''  That  is  not 
like  Edward's  signature  now,"  and  she  pointed  to  a  peculiar 
turn  in  the  letter  V. 

Mildred  assented  mechanically. 

"It  is  a  very  careful  signature,  not  such  as  a  man  would 
write  in  a  fit  of  desperation,"  continued  Bertha. 

Mildred  looked  at  it  now  more  closely :  "  Yes,  it  is  very 
careful ;"  but  it  did  not  seem  to  strike  her  that  it  was  in  any 
other  way  peculiar. 

Bertha's  heart  sank.  It  would  be  too  cruel  to  suggest  the 
possibility  of  forgeiy,  if  after  all  the  idea  were  but  the  coinage 
of  her  own  imagination;  and  concealing  her  disappointment, 
she  said,  "  I  sh^mld  scarcely  have  thought  it  an  off"ence  sc 


402  CLEVE   HALL. 

unpaRloiiablo,  after  eighteen  years  of  suffering  and  repent- 
ance." 

"  It  might  not  have  been  with  any  one  but  my  father;  but 
— I  can't  talk  of  it — may  I  have  it  to  take  to  him'/" 

Bertlia  hesitated,  and  said  she  had  no  right  to  give  it  up; 
it  was  found  in  JMr.  Lester's  pocket-book,  and  she  must  return 
it  to  him. 

jMiklred  hioked  annoyed :  '^  It  is  my  father's/'  she  observed ; 
"  he  is  inquiring  for  it." 

"  He  must  have  given  it  himself  to  Mr.  Lester,"  replied 
Bertha. 

•'  I  don't  know — at  any  rate,  it  is  his." 

Just  then  Ella  came  back :  "  Aunt  Mildred !  Aunt  iMil- 
drcd  !  indeed  you  must  come  I  You  can't  think  what  a  state 
grandpapa  is  getting  into." 

Mildred  turned  to  Bertha:  ''  Trust  me  with  it;  I  will  keep 
it  for  Mr.  Lester  if  I  can.  My  father  may  have  forgotten  that 
he  gave  it,  and  it  would  work  upon  his  mind  terribly  to  thiidc 
he  had  lost  it." 

"You  are  at  liberty  to  say  where  it  was  found,"  replied 
Bertha,  rather  proudly,  "and  to  assure  General  Vivian  that 
immediately  on  iNIr.  Lester's  return  I  will  speak  to  him  about 
it.  I  can't  possibly  do  more."  She  replaced  the  paper  in  the 
pocket-book;  but  seeing  JMildred's  face  of  vexation,  she  added, 
"  You  must  forgive  me ;  but  it  is  against  my  conscience." 

Mildred  scarcely  trusted  herself  with  a  reply.  She  merely 
said,  "I  hope  you  are  right;  I  cannot  tell,"  and  left  the 
room. 

Bertha  waited  about  ten  minutes  at  the  Hall  after  seeing 
]\Iildred.  Ella  came  back  to  her,  and  they  went  down  stairs 
and  talked  with  Rachel.  Ella  was  uneasy  about  Clement,  yet 
not  so  much  so  as  Bertha  expected,  now  that  she  knew  what 
had  become  of  him.  Hers  was  not  an  anxious  nature;  and 
besides,  she  had  often  heard  Clement  boast  of  what  he  would 
do  some  day,  when  he  was  his  own  master,  and  so  it  seemed 
less  strange  to  her  that  he  should  take  the  opportunity  of  Mr. 
Lester's  absence  to  indulge  himself  in  an  adventure ;  and  she 
decided  that  he  must  be  back  either  that  evening  or  the  next 
morning.  She  seemed  unable  to  understand  the  possibility 
of  danger,  and  her  sense  of  duty  and  obedience  was  not  yet 
sufficiently  strong  to  make  her  regard  the  offence  in  the  same 
light  as  Rachel. 

It  was  very  trying  to  Bertha  to  hear  the  kind  of  discussion 


CLEVE    HALL.  403 

wliich  went  on,  and  to  listen  whilst  Ella  talked  confidently  of 
things  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  and  excused  faults  which 
were  likely  to  be  of  the  utmost  importance  to  so  many  in  their 
consequences.  It  was  an  exaggerated  form  of  the  trial  which 
all  must  bear  who  are  in  earnest  in  education,  insisting  upon 
duties  and  habits  which  children  will  think  trifles,  because 
they  have  not  the  understanding  to  see  whither  they  are  tend- 
ing. Often  she  was  tempted  to  break  in  upon  the  conversa- 
tion, and  remind  Ella  that,  whatever  might  happen,  she  must 
be  answerable  for  many  of  Clement's  misdeeds,  since  it  was 
from  her  he  had  first  imbibed  the  spirit  of  disobedience.  But 
Bertha's  conscience  was  busy  with  herself  also ;  and  ttcides, 
she  was  learning  to  leave  Ella  for  awhile  to  the  nurture  of 
Grod's  Providence — the  clouds,  and  rain,  and  sunshine  of  life 
— which,  when  the  weeds  have  been  taken  from  the  soil,  and 
the  heart  is  in  consequence  open  to  good  impressions,  will  do 
far  more  for  its  improvement  than  any  direct  culture. 

Ella  was  unwilling  to  let  them  go.  She  prized  their  society 
more  now  that  she  had  so  little  of  it ;  and  since  Mildred  had 
been  so  occupied  with  General  Vivian,  the  hours  had  seemed 
long  and  lonely.  Bertha  also  waited  in  the  vain  expectation 
that  Mildred  would  return,  and  that  she  should  hear  the  result 
of  the  interview  with  the  General.  She  was  not  thoroughly 
satisfied  with  her  own  pertinacity — there  had  been  some  pride 
in  it ;  yet  strict  right  was  on  her  side — feeling  on  Mildred's. 
She  thought  that,  if  Mildred  came  back,  they  would  discuss 
the  point  again ;  but  the  clock  in  the  hall  striking  a  quarter 
to  four,  and  reminding  her  that  if  she  lingered  longer  it  would 
be  dark  before  they  arrived  at  home,  she  set  off  with  Rachel, 
after  giving  a  promise  to  Ella  that  the  very  earliest  tidings  of 
Clement  should  be  sent  to  the  Ilall. 

There  were  two  ways  by  which  they  might  reach  the 
Lodge :  one  through  the  Cleve  Woods  and  the  village ;  the 
other  across  the  Common  and  the  cliffs.  Bertha  chose  the 
latter ;  she  could  then  look  over  the  sea,  and  watch  for  the 
vessels  which  might  be  coming  in.  There  were  several  in  the 
distance,  and  she  was  tempted  to  linger  and  observe  them. 
They  walked  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  looked  down  upun 
the  shore.  Bachel  remarked  that  there  were  fewer  boats  than 
usual  on  the  beach.  But  there  was  one  near  the  Point  which 
she  thought  looked  like  31ark  Wood's.  That  seemed  rather 
to  contradict  the  report  brought  by  Mrs.  Ptobinson  ;  and  Ber- 
tha, uncomfortable  at  anything  which  disturbed  what  was  now 


404  CLEVE    HALL. 

her  .settled  inipiTSsion  as  regarded  Clement,  .said  they  wouM 
go  ncarei",  and  make  certain  of  the  faet. 

"  There  arc  two  men  out  there,"  .said  Rachel,  pointing  to 
a  spot  where  the  Clevo  Plantations  joined  the  upen  Common ; 
"perhaps  they  can  tell  us." 

"I  don't  sec  them,"  replied  Bertha.  ''Oh!  yes,  there 
they  are,  keeping  close  by  the  hedge.  I  wonder  whether  they 
belong  to  the  Grange." 

"  if  they  do,  they  arc  smuggling  people,"  .said  Rachel. 
"And  they  will  be  sure  to  be  civil  to  us;  they  always  ai'o  td' 
ladies  and  children." 

"  But  not  if  we  ask  questions  about  their  boats,"  replied 
Bertha  ;  "  they  will  think  that  interference." 

"  Will  they  ?"  and  Rachel  went  nearer  to  the  edge  of  the 
diff,  and  looked  over  it  again.  "  Do  come  where  I  am,  dear 
IMiss  Campbell.  Now  that  it  is  low  tide,  one  can  tell  so  well 
how  they  get  iip  to  the  cave.  Don't  you  see  the  kind  of  steps 
up  the  cliff?" 

"  Yes ;"  but  Bertha  cared  more  for  the  boat  than  for  tho 
cave  just  then. 

Rachel  went  on  in  rather  an  excited  tone,  keeping  close  to 
Bertha  as  she  spoke  :  "  Shouldn't  you  like  to  go  into  the  cave  ? 
Anne  told  me,  a  long  time  ago,  it  was  such  au  odd  place,  and 
that  the  preventive  men  never  can  find  the  smugglers  when 
they  get  in  there ;  they  always  escape.  But  I  don't  talk  to 
Anne  now  about  such  things,"  she  added,  seeing  that  Bertha's 
countenance  was  grace.  "  I  have  never  done  it  since  papa 
told  me  not." 

Bertha  was  not  grave  on  account  of  anything  which  Rachel 
said,  she  was  watching  the  men  who  had  left  the  path  by 
the  Plantations,  and  were  coming  towards  them,  across  the 
Common. 

"Isn't  that  Goff,  Rachel?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  it's  too  tall."  But  Rachel  looked  a  second  time, 
and  changed  her  mind:  "Yes,  though,  I  think  it  must  be; 
he  walks  like  him." 

"  Never  mind  the  boat,"  said  Bertha,  turning  quickly 
homewards.     "It  is  too  late  to  wait." 

"  They  are  not  coming  this  way,  they  are  going  towards 
the  Point,"  observed  Rachel. 

They  went  on  a  few  paces  further.  Rachel  looked  back  : 
"  How  very  strange  !  lie's  gone, — one  of  them — all  of  a 
sudden.     There  were  two,  Miss  Campbell,  weren't  there  ?" 


CLEVE   HALL.  405 

"  Xever  mind,  my  dear;  come  on.  You  eau't  see  because 
of  the  brushwood." 

"  Yes,  I  can  indeed ;"  and  Rachel  could  not  resist  anotlicr 
stealthy  glance.  "  The  brushwood  couldn't  possibly  hide  him. 
Dear  Miss  Campbell,  do  you  know,  that  is  where  Clement  says 
the  smugglers  get  down  in  some  way  to  the  shore.  We  never 
could  find  out  how;  but  he  says  they  do.  It  has  something 
to  do  with  the  cave." 

''Never  mind,  my  dear,  now;  it  doesn't  concern  us." 

''  I  think  the  short  man  is  coming  behind  u.s,"  said  llachel. 
"  Shall  I  look  ?" 

"  No,  don't  look  ;  come  on." 

''Are  you  frightened,  dear  3Iiss  Campbell,  you  /ralk  so 
fast  ?" 

Bertha  slackened  her  pace. 

"  The  Common  seems  so  long  always,"  said  Rachel,  in  a 
timid  voice. 

"  We  should  have  done  better  to  go  by  the  village,"  ob- 
served Bertha ;  but  then  she  reproached  herself  for  alarming 
llachel  without  cause,  and  added  :  "  It  is  only  that  I  dislike 
meeting  that  man  Goflf,  if  it  is  he ;  but  we  shall  be  near  the 
Cliff  Cottages  soon." 

"  No,  indeed — not  for  a  long  time  ;  the  nearest  is  half  a 
mile  off.  But  there  is  the  gamekeeper's  cottage  behind  us. 
The  man  won't  do  us  any  harm,  will  he  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no,  of  course  not :  what  harm  can  he  do  us  ?"  yet 
Bertha's  trembling  heart  belied  her  brave  words. 

"If  we  could  go  across  to  the  Plantation,  we  should  be 
near  the  gamekeeper's;  and  Hardman  would  walk  home  with 
us,"  said  llachel. 

Bertha  tliought  for  an  instant ;  "  Perhaps  it  might  be  bet- 
ter :  we  can  get  in  at  the  little  gate,  and  you  can  run  on  and 
ask  Hardman." 

"  And  leave  you  ?" 

"  Yes — you  will  be  back  again  directly ;  and  he  won't  fol- 
low us  into  the  Plantation." 

Again  llachel  glanced  round  :  "  He  is  coming,  but  he  is 
not  very  near.  We  had  better  go  this  way ;"  and  she  wcMit 
on  in  the  most  direct  course,  finding  her  path  through  tlie 
furze,  without  considering  the  prickles,  and  not  .stopping  until, 
nearly  out  of  breath,  they  reached  the  IMantation-gate.  It 
\vas  locked. 

*' Get  over  it,  and  run  on  to  the  f;o(tage,"  said  Bertha. 


40G  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  And  you  will  come,  too  ?" 

"Yes,  after  you;  only  you  will  be  quicker  than  I  shall." 

llachel  clambered  over  the  gate,  and  wished  to  wait  and 
assist  Bertha ;  but  her  help  was  refused,  and  she  hurried  ou 
through  the  Plantation,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

IJertha  put  lier  foot  ou  the  first  bar,  but  the  gate  was  an 
awkward  one  to  mount,  and  she  slipped  back,  and  nearly  fell, 
liooking  back,  she  saw  the  man  coming  towards  her.  She 
tried  a  second  time — a  bramble  caught  her  dress  and  entan- 
gled it.  He  was  so  close  now  that  she  could  hear  his  foot- 
steps,— nearer  and  nearer.  She  tore  away  her  dress, — n.ade 
a  third  attempt, — reached  the  second  bar,  and  was  upon  the 
point  of  jumping  over,  when  a  hand  grasped  her  shoulder, 
whilst  another  covered  her  mouthy  and  a  harsh  voice  said, 
"  Silence  !  as  you  value  your  life." 

She  turned.     It  was  Goff. 

Fear  was  gone  then.  She  confronted  hira  without  shrink- 
ing :  "  Your  business  with  me  ?" 

"  You  have  a  paper  signed  by  Edward  Vivian  :  give  it  to 
me." 

"  If  I  have,  I  will  keep  it ;  you  have  no  right  to  it." 

"  Power  is  right.  I  must  have  it ;"  and  he  touched  the 
trigger  of  a  pistol  concealed  under  his  coat,  adding :  "  Take 
care,  this  is  no  child's  play." 

"  Let  that  come  which  God  may  appoint.  I  will  not  give 
it,"  replied  Bertha. 

He  again  put  his  hand  upon  her  mouth :  "  Attempt  io 
scream  and  you  are  a  dead  woman.  Now  let  me  see  everything 
you  have  in  your  possession." 

Bertha  threw  her  keys  and  handkerchief  upon  the  ground. 

"That's  not  all — the  pocket-book;"  and  seeing  she  hesi- 
tated, he  thrust  his  hand  himself  into  her  pocket,  and  drew 
it  out. 

The  first  paper  which  presented  itself  was  the  old  disco- 
lored bill.  Holding  her  very  firmly  with  one  hand,  GofF  un- 
folded with  the  other;  and  then  putting  his  face  close  to  her's, 
muttered  :  "  The  first  word  that  whispers  to  man  or  woman 
what  has  passed,  your  life  is  not  worth  an  hour's  purchase." 
Still  keeping  the  paper,  he  relaxed  his  grasp ;  and  Bertha, 
with  a  speed  which  only  extreme  fear  could  have  given, 
climbed  the  gate,  and  ran  towards  the  gamekeeper's  cottage. 

Goff  carefully  tore  the  paper  to  atoms,  and  scattered  it 
to  the  winds;   and  making  his  way  across  the  Common  to  the 


CLEVE    HALL.  407 

ITeadland,   disappeared   almost   instantaneously  amongst    the 
brushwood 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


'"HUE  path  which  Rachel  had  taken  towards  the  gamekeep- 
J^  er's  cottage  was  not  very  well  known  to  her.  It  was 
seldom  that  she  had  occasion  to  go  through  that  part  of  the 
Plantation  ;  but  it  seemed  direct  enough,  and  she  ran  on  with- 
out fear  till  she  came  to  a  point  where  it  branched  oft'  in  two 
opposite  directions — one  leading  to  the  right,  into  the  wood ; 
the  other  to  the  left,  keeping  near  the  outer  fence.  She 
paused  for  an  instant,  and  then  chose  the  latter,  under  the 
impression  that  Hardman's  cottage  was  near  the  Common. 
On  she  went  till  she  was  out  of  breath ;  but  the  cottage  did 
not  appear ;  and  at  length  she  became  fully  alive  to  the  fact 
of  having  missed  her  way.  But  she  was  not  frightened  for 
herself,  only  worried  for  Bertha.  She  was  safe  within  the 
Plantation,  and  the  cottage  certainly  could  not  be  very  far  off", 
and  there  must  be  some  cross-paths  leading  to  it.  It  would 
be  a  very  long  way  back ;  and  wishing  to  take  a  short  cut,  she 
proceeded  still  a  little  further,  and  then  saw,  to  her  great 
satisfaction,  a  chimney  rising  from  amongst  the  trees  to  the 
right.  The  sight  gave  her  renewed  vigor,  and  she  ran  for- 
ward hopefully,  until,  turning  an  angle  in  the  path,  she  disco- 
vered that  the  cottage  just  seen  was  not  in  the  Plantation,  but 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  Common,  and  immediately  in  front  of 
the  Grange. 

The  dreary  old  house,  which  was  full  in  her  view  as  she 
leaned  for  an  instant  over  the  fence,  showed  her  how  far  she 
had  gone  out  of  her  way ;  but  the  sight  of  the  cottage  was  a 
comfort.  It  was  inhabited  by  a  man  and  his  wife,  very  civil, 
respectable  people,  who  would  be  as  willing  to  render  her  any 
assistance  as  the  gamekeeper;  and  now  tliat  she  had  made 
such  a  stupid  blunder,  it  seemed  wise  to  take  advantage  of 
their  help.  And  Rachel,  trained  to  decision  from  infancy,  lost 
no  time  in  thinking  what  she  would  or  would  not  do,  but 
mounted  the  fence,  tearing  her  dress  and  hurting  her  hand 
in  the  act,  and  in  another  minute  was  at  John  Price's  door. 

A  knock,  but  no  aiiswin- — a  second  knock,  equally  unsuc- 


40S  CLEVE    HALL. 

cessful.  The  door  was  locked;  and  wliou  Raolicl  peeped  in 
at  the  latticed  window,  she  could  see  no  syinptouis  of  lire. 
John  Price  and  his  wife  had  evidently  gone  out  together. 
Exceedingly  vexatious  that  was;  aud  sonusthing  like  fear  did 
then  creep  over  llachel's  heart,  for  tlie  light  was  growing  faint, 
aud  the  Comiuou  looked  iuterniinably  dreary;  and  she  had  a 
notion,  that  if  she  were  once  to  find  herself  again  in  the  Planta- 
tion alone,  she  would  never  be  able  to  make  her  way  out. 

And  what  was  that  coming  across  the  Common,  looking  like 
a  speck,  but  certainly  moving ?  Could  it  be  Golf?  liachel 
hid  herself  on  the  other  side  of  the  cottage,  and  did  not  venture 
to  peep  round  the  corner  for  several  seconds;  when  she  did, 
the  black  speck  was  gone.  But  she  was  still  fearful  it  might 
be  Goff ;  and  how  could  she  cross  that  piece  of  the  Common 
again  to  get  into  the  Plantation,  if  he  were  lurking  near. 

A  thought  struck  her — but  not  a  very  bright  one — should 
she  go  on  to  the  Grange  ?  Perhaps  llouald  would  be  there, 
and  he  would  be  sure  to  help  her.  But,  no,  it  must  not  be; 
her  papa  would  not  like  it.  Yet  she  looked  with  longing  eyes 
at  the  rough  road,  worn  into  ruts,  which  conducted  to  the  farm 
premises  and  the  back  of  the  house.  Just  then  a  man,  whom 
Kachel  felt  nearly  sure  was  John  Price,  came  from  a  paddock 
behind  the  cottage,  and  turned  into  the  road  as  if  going  up  to 
the  house.  Kachel  ran  after  him  and  called,  but  he  did  not 
hear.  The  road  terminated  by  a  gate  opening  into  the  farm- 
yard, which  was  heavy  for  her  to  open,  and  this  trouble  delayed 
her  a  little ;  and  by  the  time  she  had  managed  to  get  through, 
she  had  lost  sight  of  the  man.  This  could  not  well  have 
happened  unless  he  was  gone  to  the  back  of  the  house,  for 
Rachel  must  have  seen  him — at  least,  so  she  thought — if  he 
were  crossing  the  yard  ;  aud  she  passed  through  the  gate  which 
separated  the  farm  premises  from  the  shrubbery,  and  found 
herself  in  a  small  overgrown  flower  garden,  completely  screened 
from  the  rest  of  the  grounds  and  from  the  farm-yard  by  tall 
trees  rising  up  immediately  in  front  of  the  high  turret  built  at 
one  angle  of  the  house.  It  was  difficult  to  know  what  to  do 
next.  She  dared  not  go  round  to  the  front  of  the  house  and 
ring  at  the  bell,  aud  run  the  chance  of  meeting  Captain  Vivian 
— and  she  did  not  like  the  thought  of  skulking  about  at  the 
side;  still  less  could  she  make  up  her  mind  to  go  all  the  way 
back  alone ;  and  at  last  she  ventured  to  call,  "  John !  John 
Price,  is  that  you  ?" 

An  answer  ! — but  not  as  Rachel  had   expected.      A  voice 


CLEVE    HALL.  409 

came  from  above,  from  a  window  higti  up  ia  the  turret  • 
"  Rachel  here  !     What  is  the  matter  ?" 

It  was  Ronald's  voice,  and  Rachel  actually  screamed  with 
delight. 

'^Ilush  !  hush  !  don't  speak  loud.     "What  is  the  matter?" 

Rachel  told  her  tale.  She  had  been  with  Miss  Campbell, 
and  they  were  late  and  frightened;  and  Goff  had  come  in 
their  way,  and  they  wanted  some  one  to  go  home  with  them. 
She  had  left  Miss  Campbell  waiting  at  the  Plantation  gate. 
"  Please  come,  Ronald;  be  quick,"  was  the  end. 

He  spoke  again,  in  a  voice  so  low  that  sue  could  scarcely 
catch  his  words  :  "  Come  near,  Rachel — under  the  window,  as 
close  as  you  can.  I  can't  come  to  you,  I  am  kept  here  as  a 
prisoner.  They  have  fastened  my  door.  1  can't  get  away, 
unless  you  will  help  me." 

"  Help  you,  oh  !  yes;  I  will  go  round  directly." 

He  stopped  her  with  a  voice  agonizing  in  its  eagerness : 
''Stay,  Rachel :  be  silent  and  listen.  Don't  be  frightened,  no 
one  will  hurt  you;  they  may  hurt  me.  Have  you  seen  any 
one  here?" 

Rachel's  excitement  was  perfectly  subdued  now;  she 
answered,  "  No  one,  except  one  man ;  I  think  it  was  John 
Price." 

''  Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell.      I  think  he  went  round  at  the  back." 

'<  Go  to  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  look  if  he  is  there 
still :  don't  show  yourself." 

Rachel  did  as  she  was  desired,  and  came  back  :  "  I  can't 
see  any  one." 

''  You  are  certain  it  was  not  Goff?" 

''  Quite,  it  was  a  taller  man ;  and  Goff  is  out  upon  the 
Common." 

"  It  was  not — my  father  ?"  he  uttered  the  name  re- 
luctantly. 

"I  don't  think  it  could  have  been;  it  was  not  like  him." 

A  pause.  Rachel  thought  of  Bertha,  and  said,  '<  Can  you 
come  with  me,  Ronald  ?" 

"  If  you  will — Rachel,  will  you  do  as  I  bid  you  ?" 

uYes — that  is,  if  I  can;"  and  Rachel's  voice  treniblcd  a 
little. 

"  You  must  go  round  to  the  back  door  :  don't  be  frightened. 
If  you  meet  any  one,  say  what  you  said  to  me  about  wanting 
hcfp,  but  don't  mention  my  name.  In  that  case  you  must  go 
18 


•110  CLKVE    HALL. 

Iiomo,  for  you  won't  bo  iiblo  to  do  anytlunt;-  for  mo.  }lat  toll 
Miss  Caniphell  from  nie  that  I  am  a  prisoiior  hero ;  that  Cle- 
ment is  in  i^rcat  dan<^-er ;  that  if  I  could  be  set  free  I  mit^lit 
aid  him  ;  but  that,  anyhow,  there  must  be  a  watoli  kept  upon 
the  shore,  for  Clement  is  with  the  smupglers,  and  there  will 
be  a  landing  to-night,  and  a  skirmish  with  the  coast-guard.  Do 
you  understand  ?" 

"  Yes,  quite." 

''  That  is  what  you  are  to  do  if  you  do  meet  any  one ;  but 
I  don't  think  you  will."  lie  paused,  as  if  hesitating  whether 
it  would  be  right  to  say  more  :  "  What  I  am  going  to  ask  you 
to  do,  Rachel,  I  would  not  ask  only  it  may  be  a  question  of 
Clement's  safety,  and  of  other  things — more  than  I  cau  tell 
now.     Will  you  do  it  ?" 

"  If  papa  would  not  mind — if  there  is  nothing  wrong." 

*'  There  can  be  no  wrong,  and — but  you  will  be  frightened." 

"  No,  indeed,  Ronald ;  God  will  keep  me  from  being 
frightened." 

"  I  would  ask  you  to  get  me  a  ladder,  but  you  couldn't 
bring  it ;  and  you  might  be  seen  by  the  farm  people.  I  could 
fasten  the  sheets  and  blankets  of  my  bed  together,  and  lot 
mj'self  down,  but  the  window  is  too  high.  I  want  more;  if 
you  could  go  into  the  house,  you  could  give  them  to  me." 

"  Yes, — how  ?"      Rachel's  heart  a  little  failed  her. 

"  There  is  an  attic  over  mine — you  see  the  window  ; — if 
you  were  in  that  attic,  you  could  let  them  down  to  me,  and  I 
could  catch  them." 

"Yes,  I  see;  but  I  don't  know  the  way — and  I  shall  be 
heard." 

Ronald's  heart  smote  him.  It  seemed  putting  the  poor 
child  in  such  danger.  And  yet  not  really  so ;  if  she  were  dis- 
covered, the  punishment  would  fall  upon  him.  Rut  her  fear 
— no,  it  was  cowardly  to  let  her  suffer  for  him ;  and  he  looked 
again  out  of  the  window,  and  calculated  the  possibility  of 
reaching  the  ground  without  more  help.  A  broken  leg,  if  not 
a  broken  neck,  seemed  the  best  he  could  expect.  And  in  the 
meantime  what  might  not  be  plotting  against  Clement !  Not 
without  a  purpose,  surely  had  he  been  detained  a  prisoner, 
threatened  with  unknown  danger  if  he  attempted  to  obtain 
help,  kept  hour  after  hour  in  expectation  of  Captain  Vivan's 
i-eturn;  and  now,  just  when  he  was  growing  desperate  with 
anxiety  and  indignation,  escape  was  within  reach,  yet  in  a 
form  in  which  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  avail  himself 


CLEVE   HALL.  411 

of  it.  It  wus  a  moment  of  cruel  uucertaiuty,  euded  by 
Raeliel. 

"  Ronald,  I  have  prayed  to  God  to  help  me,  and  I  will  do 
whatever  you  wish." 

Still  Honald  hesitated :  "  Are  you  sure  you  won't  be 
frightened  ?" 

"  I  will  try  not  to  be ;  please  tell  me  what  I  must  do." 

"  Dear  Rachel,  I  can  never  thank  j-ou  enough." 

"Let  me  do  it,  Ronald ;  thank  me  afterwards.  IMust  I  go 
into  the  house?" 

"  Yes,  at  the  back  door  ;  it  is  almost  always  open.  A  long 
passage  leads  from  it  straight  into  the  hall ;  the  kitchen  is 
away  at  the  right.  Old  Mrs.  Morris  and  the  girl  are  not 
likely  to  be  in  the  passage.  When  you  get  into  the  hall,  you 
will  see  the  staircase;  and  you  must  go  up.  There  is  a  lobby 
at  the  top.  The  farthest  door  on  the  right  opens  into  a  pas- 
sage by  the  back  staircase.  Then  you  must  go  up  the  stairs, 
up  to  the  very  top ;  and  just  before  you  will  be  the  door  of 
the  attic  above  me." 

"  Stay,  let  me  say  that  over  again,"  said  Rachel,  speaking 
firmly,  though  she  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  She  repeated 
the  direction  correctly,  and  added  :  "  What  then  ?" 

"  You  must  open  the  window,  and  let  down  the  sheets;  I 
will  catch  them.  After  that  you  had  better  come  back,  and 
wait  for  me  here." 

*'Yes;  is  there  anything  else  ?" 

"  Nothing — except,  if  you  meet  any  one  in  the  passage, 
give  your  message  about  wanting  some  one  to  go  home  with 
you.  If  you  meet  any  one  on  the  stairs,  or  in  the  bedroom, 
say  it  was  -I  who  sent  you ;  and  no  harm  will  come  to  you, 
whatever  may  to  me." 

Rachel  moved  away  a  few  steps,  but  returned  :  "  Are  you 
sure  I  shan't  meet  Captain  Vivian  ?" 

"Very  nearly;  I  can't  be  quite  sure.  Dear  Rachel,  don't 
go  if  you  are  frightened." 

"  I  won't  be  frightened.     This  way,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  the  right — round  the  corner." 

"  Good-b'ye,"  and  Rachel  was  gone. 

The  back  door  was  soon  reached.  Rachel  would  not  give 
herself  time  for  thought,  and  entered.  The  passage  was  very 
long  and  dark,  and  she  heard  voices  talking  in  the  kitchen, 
quite  close,  so  it  seemed,  but  no  one  came  out.  A  heavy 
swing  door  closed  the  passage;  she  pushed  it  open,  feeling 


412  CLEVE   HALL. 

almost  sure  that  she  should  meet  some  one  oa  the  other  side ; 
but  there  was  no  one,  and  her  liji;]it  footsteps  sounded  omi- 
nously loud  on  the  uneven  stone  floor  of  the  lar^e  hull.  On 
one  side  of  the  hall  were  the  doors  opening  to  tiie  other  parts 
of  the  house ;  on  the  other  the  wide  shallow  staircase.  Rachel 
touched  the  first  step,  and  it  creaked.  She  stood  still,  and 
thout!;ht5he  heard  a  door  slam — her  heart  beat  so  that  she  could 
scarcely  move;  but  on  she  went,  and  creak,  creak  went  the 
stairs,  so  loudly  that  it  made  her  bold.  She  reached  the  lobby 
in  safety.  Then  her  recollection  became  confused.  Was  she 
to  go  straightforward  or  turn  to  the  right?  Straightforward 
she  thought,  and  she  pushed  open  a  door.  A  pair  of  man's 
boots  caught  her  eye,  and  she  almost  screamed, — happily  not 
quite,  and  recovering  herself,  went  back  again,  seeiig  that  she 
was  wrong.  The  back  staircase  was  before  her,  as  she  opened 
the  right  hand  door,  a  girl  was  singing  below  in  the  kitchen — • 
that  was  a  great  comfort.  She  almost  ran  up  the  stairs,  but 
they  were  steep  and  worn, — they  grew  worse  and  worse  as  she 
went  on ;  and  when  she  stood,  as  she  thought,  at  the  top,  there 
were  others  still  above.  Again  she  paused  to  take  breath.  A 
door  did  slam  then,' — there  was  no  doubt  of  it, — a  door  below; 
and  there  was  a  footstep  on  the  stairs,  slow  and  heavy. 
Rachel's  knees  tottered.  She  hurried  on :  the  slow  step  came 
behind,  and  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  last  flight.  Was  it 
coming  higher?  No;  to  Rachel's  inexpressible  relief,  old 
Mi"s.  Morris,  the  housekeeper,  slept  in  one  of  the  lower  rooms; 
and  she  could  hear  her  muttering  to  herself  whilst  wandering 
about  her  chamber,  and  then  descend  again  with  the  same 
ponderous  tread  as  before. 

Rachel  was  now  in  the  attic — a  large,  comfortless  apart- 
ment, with  two  beds,  which  seemed  half  buried  under  the 
sloping  roof.  The  window  was  high,  and  she  had  to  climb  a 
chair  to  unfasten  it ;  and  the  chair  was  heavy,  so  that  she 
could  not  lift  it,  but  was  obliged  to  drag  it  along  the  floor. 

A  fearfid  noise  that  was  1  But  Mrs.  Morris  was  by  that 
time  in  the  kitchen  again,  and  Rachel  was  grown  desperate  in 
her  boldness ;  and  at  length,  after  considerable  difiiculty,  the 
window  was  unfastened,  a  sheet  dragged  from  the  bed  and  let 
down,  and  in  a  moment  caught  by  Ronald  from  below. 

"  Any  more  ? — do  you  want  any  more  ?"  she  ventured  to 
say. 

"  Yes,  one  more.  Stay ;  not  till  I  put  out  my  hand  ;"  and 
Rachel,  stationed  at  the  attic  window,  looked  down,  and  ,saw 


CLEVE   HALL.  413 

the  man  whom  she  had  fancied  to  be  John  Price,  but  whom 
she  recognised  now  as  one  of  Gofl's  constant  companions,  pas9 
through  the  farm-yard. 

When  he  was  out  of  sight,  Ronahl  waved  his  hand  from 
the  window:  "Now,  then." 

The  second  sheet  was  let  down, 

''Is  that  all?" 

"  Yes ;   come  down  quickly." 

llachel  left  the  window  open,  and  went  to  the  head  of  tho 
staircase.  Her  impulse  was  to  rush.  And  she  did  rush,  not 
heeding  the  creaking  of  stairs,  or  listening  for  the  sounds  of 
doors,  or  voices,  but  going  on  blindly,  desperately — by  the 
worn  steps,  across  the  lobby,  flittering  like  a  gust  of  wind 
down  the  broad  staircase,  and  across  the  hall,  till  she  had 
passed  through  the  dark  passage,  and  was  again  in  the  open 
air,  and  under  Ronald's  window. 

llonald  looked  out :  "  Rachel,  are  you  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  safe.      Are  you  coming?" 

"  Directly.  I  am  tying  them  together.  Keep  close  under 
the  wall, — away  to  the  left." 

She  waited,  it  seemed,  an  interminable  time  :  she  did  not 
vinderstand  what  he  meant  to  do. 

The  rope  of  sheets  was  fastened  at  the  top,  and  was  let 
down. 

"  Now,  Rachel,  keep  away ;  don't  be  afraid,  it  will  hold  me." 

She  hid  her  face,  and  prayed. 

AVhen  she  looked  up,  he  was  standing  by  her  side  :  "  Oh  ! 
Ronald,  I  am  so  thankful !"  Her  voice  was  faint  and 
trembling. 

He  pressed  her  hand  earnestly:  "  Thank  God,  first,  Rachel, 
— you  afterwards ;"  and  they  went  on  together  in  silence. 

Their  steps  were  directed  towards  the  gamekeeper's  cottage. 
I'here  Ronald  proposed,  in  case  Bertha  was  gone,  to  give 
Rachel  in  charge  to  some  person  who  might  accompany  her 
home,  whilst  he  went  in  search  of  Mr.  Lester  or  JMr.  Vivian. 
It  was  the  only  plan  he  coidd  form  on  the  spur  of  the  moment; 
but  as  he  went  on  it  occasioned  considerable  misgiving.  He 
was  not  able  at  first  to  think.  Evciy  dark  object,  every  gate 
post  or  trunk  of  a  tree,  suggested  the  idea  of  some  one  track- 
ing his  footsteps,  or  stopping  him  on  the  way^  but  when  they 
bad  crossed  the  Common,  and  were  again  within  the  shelter 
of  the  Plantation,  he  ventured  to  pause  for  a  moment  to  coU' 


414  CLEVE    HALL. 

sider  whether  the  course  he  had  detenuinecl  upon  would  be  the 
best  lie  couhl  adopt. 

So  little  knowleduc  had  he  of  his  father's  movements,  that 
he  was  unable  to  tell  to  what  decree  the  danger  which  ho 
supposed  menaced  Clement,  might  or  might  not  ini])licate 
Captain  Vivian ;  and  the  doubt  upon  this  ])oint,  so  intensely 
painful,  pressed  upon  him  overwhelmingly,  at  the  very  moment 
when  it  was  most  necessary  to  act  with  decision. 

True,  Mr.  Vivian  had  promised  to  take  no  idvantagc,  to 
his  father's  injury,  of  any  communication  which  he  might 
make.  But  this  was  not  now  the  point.  Whatever  might  be 
his  duty  hereafter,  as  regarded  the  teirible  secret  M'hich  had 
that  day  been  confided  to  him,  there  was  no  time  now  to  ponder 
upon  it, — Clement  was  his  object.  But  in  saving  Clement  ho 
might  be  brought  into  personal  opposition  with  his  father.  If 
Captain  A'^ivian  should,  himself,  join  the  smuggling  party;  by 
aiding  Mr.  Vivian,  Ronald  might  be  forced  to  act  against  him. 
The  thought  was  horrible.  But  how  could  he  leave  Clement, 
knowing  that  machinations  were  going  on,  having  promised 
again  and  again  that  he  would  watch  over  him  ?  It  seemed 
e([ually  impossible;  the  sense  of  honor  and  gratitude,  which 
lay  as  a  burden  upon  his  conscience,  forbade  it.  He  stood  for 
a  few  moments  irresolute,  gazing  upon  the  flag-staff  on  the 
Headland,  as  it  was  seen  through  an  opening  in  the  trees. 

llachel  drew  near  :  "  Look,  Ronald;  there  is  a  light  on  the 
Point.     Is  it  any  one  moving  ?" 

*'  It  is  a  fire,  not  a  lantern." 

"  A  fire  there  !     What  for  ?" 

"  Never  mind ;  there  are  often  fires  on  the  Point." 

Rachel  continued  :  *'  Some  one  said  one  day  that  they  wci'O 
always  lighted  by  smugglers;  will  it  have  anything  to  do  with 
Clement  V 

He  made  no  reply. 

"May  we  come  on,  Ronald?  Miss  Campbell  will  be  so 
tired  and  frightened." 

"  Yes ;  I  had  forgotten ;"  and  he  went  on  quickly^  still; 
however,  looking  towards  the  Point. 

"  Are  you  very  much  afraid  for  Clement,  Ronald  ?" 
*  I  don't  know ;  I  hope  not.     See,  Rachel,  there  is  the 
cottage.     Should  you  mind  going  to  the  door  alone  ?" 

"  I  would  rather  not,  if  you  don't  care ;"  and  she  drew 
nearer  to  him.  "If  Hardman  shoidd  be  out,  or  Miss  Camp- 
hell  shnuldu't  be  there,  what  should  I  do?" 


CLEVE   HALL.  415 

"  But  I  would  wait  for  you  lierc ;  I  would  be  within  sight." 

"  Hark  !  there  is  a  voice — papa's  voice  ;  and  there  he  is  at 
tlie  door,  and  Miss  Campbell  with  him.  lie  must  have  come 
by  the  Clove  coach.  j>lrs.  Robinson  went  to  tell  him  about 
Clement." 

''  Mrs.  Robinson  !     Did  she  know  ?" 

"  Yes,  about  his  having  gone  with  the  smugglers.  I  don't 
know  how  she  heard  it.  Please  let  me  go ;"  and  she  would 
have  sprung  forward,  but  Ronald  kept  her  back. 

"  Listen,  Rachel.  I  can't  see  Mr.  Lester.  Tell  him  what 
I  said.  He  must  watch  for  Clement  on  the  beach.  Say  to 
him  that  I  will  watch  too.  Say  to  Miss  Campbell  that  1  re- 
member my  promise,  and" — his  voice  failed  him — "  good- 
by'e,  Rachel.     I  shall  never  forget  this  evening." 

"  Good-by'e,  and  thank  you  so  very,  very  much,  Ronald." 

She  ran  to  the  cottage,  and  Ronald  turned  into  a  narrow 
track  in  the  wood. 


CHAPTER  XL^^I. 


THE  day  closed  ominously,  though  the  upper  part  of  the 
sky  was  clear,  for  thick  masses  of  vapor  were  collecting  in 
the  horizon,  and  gusts  of  wind  rushed  threateningly  over  the 
chafed  waves. 

Captain  Vivian,  wrapped  in  a  rough  seaman's  coat,  watched 
the  failing  light  from  the  shelter  of  the  rocks  gathered  around 
Dark  Head  Point.  Immovable  as  he  stood  for  a  long  time,  he 
could  scarcely  have  been  distinguished  from  them ;  yet,  as  the 
glimmer  became  fainter  and  more  faint,  he  might  have  been 
seen  slowly  ascending  the  rough  path  cut  in  the  cliflFs,  till  he 
8t(Jod  before  the  passage  entrance  to  the  cave,  in  which  he  and 
Ronald  had  met  that  morning.  The  light  yet  lingered  within, 
forcing  its  way  through  apertures  in  the  rock ;  and  flinging 
himself  upon  the  ground,  so  as  to  command  the  entrance, 
Captain  Vivian  placed  a  pistol  by  his  side,  lighted  his  cigar, 
and  waited,  as  it  appeared,  with  tolerable  tran(|uillity  the 
course  of  coming  events. 

His  watchfulness,  however,  was  not  chiefly  directed  to  the 
entrance  of  the  cave;  more  frequently  he  turned  his  head 
towards  the  large  stone  near  the  rough   hearth,  and  several 


ilG  CLEVE   nALL. 

times  he  took  his  ci'^ar  from  his  mouth  aiifl  listened.  ITc 
grew  impatient  at  h;ni;th,  and  rose  and  paced  the  cave ;  and 
once  lie  touched  the  stone,  as  if  to  move  it;  but  then  some- 
thina;  checked  him,  and  he  sat  down  again  near,  still  listening. 

The  long,  low  whistle  so  familiar  to  him  was  heard  at  last, 
very  faint,  coming,  as  it  seemed,  from  within  the  rock.  Cap- 
tain  Vivian  answered  it,  and  immediately  pushed  aside  the 
stone,  rolling  it  from  him  with  the  strength  of  a  giant.  Be- 
hind it  only  the  side  of  the  cave  was  discovered ;  but  the  sur- 
face was  uneven,  and  pieces  of  the  rock  had  been  detached 
one  from  the  other,  and  heaped  together  against  it.  Some  of 
these  Captain  Vivian  removed  carefully,  and  a  small  opening 
was  seen  behind  it.     He  put  his  head  close  to  it :  "  Goff !" 

''  Ay,  Captain !" 

It  was  but  the  work  of  a  rointite  to  remove  a  few  more  of 
the  stones,  and  an  opening  was  made  large  enough  to  admit 
the  body  of  a  man;  and  through  this  opening  crept  (jioif. 

"Better  close  our  door,  only  not  too  close,"  said  Captain 
Vivian.  He  pushed  the  stone  against  the  opening,  but  with- 
out building  it  up  as  before. 

Goff  sat  down  on  the  wooden  bench  without  speaking. 

"Successful?"  said  Captain  Vivian. 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"  What !  in  earnest  ?"  and  a  gleam  of  wild  exultation 
shot  across  Captain  Vivian's  face. 

"  What  else  should  a  man  be  but  in  earnest !  They  may 
search  to  the  poles  now  for  the  bits  of  their  precious  paper." 

Captain  Vivian  drew  a  deep  breath  :  "  One  of  ten  thousand  ! 
Did  she  give  it  ?" 

"  Give  it !  .she'd  have  fought  single-banded  first;  but  it's 
quick  work  with  a  woman." 

"  You  have  done  her  no  harm  !"  exclaimed  Captain  Vivian, 
quickly. 

Goff  laughed  :  "  Frightened  her  little  wits  out  of  hor,  ny 
more.  You  might  have  done  the  same  if  you'd  had  but  u 
grain  more  of  pluck  in  you.     But  now  to  business." 

Captain  Vivian  sat  silent;  and  GofF  spoke  again:  "The 
work's  not  done, — remember  that.  Captain." 

He  started.  The  mood  of  thought  had  passed  away,  and 
the  first  success  had  stimulated  his  longing  for  greater.  "  I'm 
ready,"  he  said;  "the  time  draws  near.  Mr.  Lester  and 
Edward  Vivian  are  returned." 

"  Yi)u  have  seen  them  V 


CLEVE    HALL.  417 

"  I  watched  amongst  tlie  brushwood,  after  we  parted,  till 
they  were  in  sight.  They  came  by  the  Cleve  road,  and  went 
straight  to  Hardman's  ccttage.  I  came  off  to  the  shore  then. 
If  they  had  an  inkling  of  the  state  of  afiairs,  their  object 
must  hare  been  to  get  help." 

"  Then  they  will  be  here  soon,"  said  GofF. 

"  I  care  not,"  was  the  reply.  "  Edward  Vivian  is  in  my 
power  now.  I  will  meet  him,  and  make  him  yield  to  any 
terms  of  silence  as  to  the  past." 

"  When  and  where  ?" 

"  Here  on  the  shore.  I  will  watch  for  him.  You  have 
Bent  abroad  the  report  of  the  landing  ?" 

"  It's  over  the  village  by  this  time,"  replied  GofF.  "  A 
hint  I  gave  to  the  boy  Styles  has  set  it  going.  The  prevent- 
ives are  on  the  look-out ;  and  the  woman  at  the  Farm  has 
been  spreading  the  tale  at  the  Hall.  I  heard  Bertha  Camp- 
bell and  Rachel  Lester  talking  of  it,  as  I  followed  them  when 
they  first  came  out  of  the  Hall  grounds.  They  little  thought 
I  was  so  near." 

"■  We  light  the  beacon  then,  and  the  vessel  makes  to  shore." 

"Yes.  "when  the  first  fire  burns,  she  tacks  in;  at  the 
second,  she  sends  off  the  boat  with  Clement  on  board.  Be- 
tween the  two,  therefore,  is  the  time  for  Edward  Vivian,  if 
you  still  keep  your  purpose." 

''  Keep  to  it !     It  will  be  my  triumph  or  my  revenge." 

"  There  might  be  a  surer  one,"  muttered  GofF,  handling 
his  pistol.  "  But  as  you  will — safe's  safe,  all  the  world  over. 
But  how  if  Edward  Vivian  refuses  to  give  in  ?" 

"  Then  let  the  boy  meet  his  fate;  and  for  ourselves — there's 
the  boat  and  escape  to  the  vessel,  and  a  run  on  the  coast  oppo- 
site till  we  see  the  turn  things  take.     There's  no  fear." 

"  Fear  !"  and  GofF  laughed  scornfully.  "  If  I  had  feared, 
I  should  never  have  ventured  myself  into  the  deep  waters 
with  you,  Captain ;  you  are  the  last  to  lend  a  helping  hand  to 
get  one  out.     But  it's  settled,  then." 

"  Yes,  settled — certain.  We  keep  near  the  boat,  and  (;an 
be  off  at  a  moment's  warning,  if  necessary.  It's  waiting  by 
ihe  East  bay;  I  took  care  it  should  be  in  readiness  befura  I 
joined  you  just  now  on  the  Common." 

"  The  beacon  must  be  lighted,"  said  GofF,  surlily. 
Captain  A^iviaii  was  silent. 

"  Do  you  repent,  Captain  ?  Will  you  leave  it  to  me  to 
settle  T' 


418  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  llcpcut !  wlicn  we  huvo,  tniiini)hod  !"  There  was  scorn 
but  no  triumph  lu  Captaiu  Viviau's  touc ;  perhaps  he  thought 
of  lloiiald. 

Goff  spoke  more  lightl^y :  ''Stop  a  minute  tlien,  whilst  I 
light  the  beacon  which  will  bring  the  little  craft  to  her  duty  ; 
and  we'll  go  along  the  beach  towards  the  boat.  We  shall 
have  a  watch  over  Edward  Vivian  at  the  same  time,  for  he'll 
be  down  before  another  half  hour  is  over." 

(jroff  left  the  cave  as  he  had  entered  it,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  returned  again.  "  It  burns  bravely,"  he  said.  "  Wcs'U 
leave  the  passage  open — with  only  the  door  shut,  I  mean.  It 
may  be  useful."  He  pushed  the  stone  again  into  its  place. 
''  Now  for  the  boat." 

They  went  down  the  cliff  together;  as  they  reached  the 
bottom,  Captain  Vivian  approached  his  companion,  and  drew 
him  within  the  shadow  of  the  rocks:  "  Hist  1  hist !  d'ye  see?" 

Three  men  were  walking  at  a  little  distance  along  the  shore. 
They  exactly  intercepted  the  course  which  must  be  tiken  to 
reach  the  boat. 

"  Preventives  !"  whispered  Captaiu  Vivian.  "  They'll  not 
disturb  us  yet." 

'<  I'm  not  sure;  the  middle  one  has  something  like  Edward 
Vivian's  stalk." 

The  men  drew  nearer,  then  turned  again  :  they  were  evi- 
dently keeping  watch. 

"  Risk  it,  and  go  by,"  muttered  Captain  Vivian. 

"  Not  safe.  We  don't  know  what  he  may  be  up  to;  and 
we  must  catch  him  alone  for  your  purpose — and  for  mine  too," 
was  added  in  an  iinder  tone. 

They  stood  still  deliberating.  Goff  looked  up  at  the  cliff, 
considering  whether  it  were  possible  to  scale  it.  It  was 
rugged,  but  not  by  any  means  inaccessible;  yet  he  seemed 
unwilling  to  attempt  it.  "  It's  safest  where  we  are,"  he  said  : 
"  keep  down  amongst  the  rocks,  and  bide  your  time.  He 
must  pass  this  way;  if  not,  I'll  give  him  a  hint  that  will  send 
him.  Leave  me  to  look  after  the  boat :  when  needed,  it  shall 
be  in  the  inner  bay.  Yet  stay ; — how  is  the  second  blaze  to 
be  cared  for  ?     I  said  it  should  be  lighted  at  the  East  Point." 

"  If  Edward  Vivian  comes  I  will  take  him  there.  The 
boat  will  then  be  below  us,  ready." 

"  Good  !     Then  you  set  the  second  light  yourself." 

"Ay,  and  Edward  Vivian's  obstinacy  shall  kindle  it;  and 
wlicn  it  blazes,  it  shall  destroy  his  hopes  for  his  boy  for  ever." 


CLEVE    HALL.  419 

An  hour  and  a  half  later  the  moon  had  risen;  but  her 
light  was  obscured  by  passing  clouds,  and  the  wind  was  still 
moaning  sadly,  and  occasionally  rising  into  shrill,  prolonged 
howls.  But  it  was  a  land  wind,  and  the  sea  was  as  yet  suffi- 
ciently calm  to  enable  a  boat  to  approach  the  shore. 

The  little  smuggling  vessel  was  riding  at  anchor  at  a  con- 
siderable distance  to  the  west  of  the  Headland.  Tbe  sands 
were  covered,  for  it  was  recently  high  tide ;  and  heavy  waves 
crashed  upou  the  stones  of  the  beach,  and  tossed  themselves 
against  the  sea-weed  covered  rocks. 

There  were  no  signs  of  any  one  upon  the  beach ;  but  once, 
as  the  moon  glided  forth  from  the  clouds,  her  light  touched  a 
figure  moving  high  up  along  the  face  of  the  cliff,  to  the  east 
of  the  Headland;  and  then,  in  a  sudden  lull  of  the  wind, 
came  the  rush  of  loose  stones  detached  from  their  position. 

The  flash  of  a  dark  lantern  was  seen  from  behind  the  rocks 
below  the  Smugglers'  cave ;  and  two  men  in  the  dress  of  the 
coast-guard  advanced  and  looked  up  towards  the  cliff. 
"  They've  not  given  us  the  slip,  surely?" 
"  Not  they ;  and  if  they  have,  there  are  enough  waiting 
for  them,     'Twas  but  a  fall  after  the  rains." 

The  man  who  had  spoken  first  stepped  cautiously  over  the 
rocks  to  a  little  distance,  and  then  returned. 

"  They've  help  waiting  for  them,  Ryan,"  he   said :   "  I 
heard  a  call  above  there,  behind  us." 
"  A  call ! — for  us,  perhaps." 

"  No,  no ;  I  saw  them  away  to  the  right.  Now  look,  they 
are  moving." 

A  very  keen  sight  might  perceive  the  objects  pointed  out, 
but  they  were  now  stationary  again.  Ryan  seemed  certain 
that  they  belonged  to  the  coast-guard,  •  though  he  kept  his 
attention  directed  towards  them. 

"Why!  Dennis,  man,"  he  said,  "the  landing  was  to  be 
made  to  the  west,  so  their  friends  would  be  away  beyond  the 
Point !" 

"I  don't  hold  all  that  for  Gospel,"  replied  Dennis. _  "Ten 
to  one  but  the  hint  we  had  was  putting  out  a  false  light;  I 
thought  so  at  the  time.  Now,  don't  you  see?  They're  creep- 
ing along  again." 

'  Four  persons  could  now  clearly  be  distinguished  near  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  but  the  dim  light  was  not  at  all-sufficient  to 
determine  their  dress;  and  a  rather  eager  discussion  began  in 
an  under  tone  between  Kyan  and  Dennis,— the  latter  insisting 


420  CLEVE    HALL. 

that  they  shouhl  move  to  the  cast  side  of  the  I'oint,  and  keep 
guard  iipnii  the  movements  of  the  suspicious  individuals 
above;  llyan  as  firmly  holding  to  his  detcrnunation  to  remain 
where  he  had  been  placed,  according  to  a  hint  given  through 
a  "boy  in  the  village,  known  to  be  connected  with  the  smug- 
glers, that  the  landing  would  be  made,  if  possible,  west  of  the 
Headland. 

'*  A  few  steps  up  the  cliflf  would  settle  the  matter  (juictly  " 
fiaid  Dennis,  tired  at  length  of  endeavoring  to  persuade  his 
comrade  of  a  fact  of  which  he  himself  was  firmly  convinced. 
"  Keep  your  stand  here,  man,  if  you  will  j  I  shall  be  with  you 
in  half  a  second,  if  there's  need." 

Without  waiting  for  an  assent,  he  climbed  up  several  feet, 
and  threw  himself  with  a  spring  upon  a  square  projecting  rock, 
standing  forth  like  a  table,  from  which  his  eye  could  reach 
any  objects  moving  either  to  the  right  or  left  along  the  cliff's, 
besides  commanding  an  extensive  reach  of  the  coast. 

Voices  sounded  above,  but  they  were  not  distinguishable. 
The  cliff"  was  in  this  place  tolerably  easy  of  ascent,  for  it  was 
worn  into  ledges;  and  the  preventive  man,  accustomed  to 
scale  it  under  all  circumstances,  found  no  difficidty  in  ap- 
proaching still  nearer,  so  as  at  length  to  be  very  near  the 
summit,  yet  not  himself  within  view. 

Mr.  Lester's  voice  was  the  first  recognised :  "  The  coast- 
guard fellows  are  away  beyond  the  Point;  that  ought  to  be 
our  direction." 

Ilardman,  the  gamekeeper,  answered  :  "  They  are  all  along. 
Sir.  Three  of  them  have  been  upon  the  shore,  near  the  boat- 
house,  for  the  last  hour,  so  John  Price  here  says.  He  saw 
them  as  he  came  back,  after  taking  Miss  Campbell  and  Miss 
Rachel  home.     We  might  ask  them  what  they  are  after." 

■"No,  no,"  interposed  another  voice,  stopped  suddenly  by 
Mr.  Lester. 

"  Impossible  to  ask  them,  Hardraan.  They  have  their  duty 
to  perform,  without  respect  of  persons.  It  must  be  our  own 
work." 

A  slide  of  stones,  as  Dennis  retreated  down  the  cliff"  to  give 
the  information  he  had  gained  to  his  companion,  startled  the 
little  party  into  silence. 

Mr.  Lester  drew  Mr.  Vivian  aside  :  "  Once  more,  Vivian, 
think  :  this  can  be  no  work  for  you." 

''  If  it  is  not  mine  it  is  no  one's.  I  am  resolved  And  I 
can  defend  myself  now  :  I  am  armed." 


CLEVE    HALL.  421 

"  No  protection  from  a  pistol  bullet ;  lint  you  are  -wilful ;" 
and  Mr.  Lester  turned  to  Hardman.  "  We  had  better  sepa- 
rate ;  the  clififs  for  you,  the  shore  for  us.  If  the  landing  is 
made  safely,  and  Clement  is  of  the  party,  you  have  but  to 
meet  him  and  force  him  to  return  with  you ;  if  there  should 
be  an  affray,  twenty  pounds  reward  to  each,  if  you  succeed  in 
eavin2;  him  from  being  engaged  in  it." 

"  Twenty  pounds  !  Forty  !  fifty  !  a  hundred  !"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Vivian ;  then  seeing  the  men's  start  of  surprise,  he  checked 
himself,  and  added,  "  What  sum  could  be  too  great  to  save 
Greneral  Vivian's  grandson  from  public  disgrace  ';*'' 

The  men  touched  their  hats  in  silence,  and  moved  on  along 
the  cliffs.  IMr.  Vivian  and  Mr.  Lester  took  a  more  difficult 
path  downwards. 

The  descent  was  about  half  made  when  IMr.  Vivian  stopped : 
•'  I  know  a  better  road  than  the  shore,  Lester.  The  tide  is 
high,  and  we  shall  have  hard  work  to  get  on.  There  is  a  ledge 
along  the  cliff — or  there  used  to  be  in  the  old  days." 

"  It  passes  the  cave;  I  know  it." 

"  Above  or  below,  as  we  will.  It  will  carry  us  round  the 
Point  if  needful,  and  if  your  head  is  firm ;  and  we  shall  com- 
mand the  shore." 

"  i\Iy  head  will  carry  me  wherever  your  heart  carries  you, 
Vivian." 

They  moved  on  slowly  for  some  distance.  The  ledge  was 
narrow  and  uneven — in  some  places  the  cliff  sank  perpendicu- 
larly below  them  to  the  depth  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet ;  in 
others  it  was  more  a  path  over  fallen  rocks  and  projections. 

"  Look  !  Lester" — Mr.  Vivian  delayed  for  an  instant — 
"  one  of  the  preventive  men  in  his  hiding-place."  He  pointed 
to  some  large  rocks,  brought  out  into  strong  relief  by  the  pass- 
ing of  the  moon  from  amongst  the  clouds.  It  was  just  possi- 
ble to  distinguish  a  man  crouching  behind  them. 

"  Yes ;  that  seems  as  if  the  lauding  would  be  on  this  side." 
The  figure  below  stood  up  in  a  listening  attitude.  "  We  had 
better  not  make  ourselves  remarked,"  whispered  Mr.  Lester, 
and  they  drew  back  from  the  edge;  but  Mr.  Vivian  seemed 
inclined  to  pause. 

"I  might  get  something  out  of  him,"  he  said,  '^  if  I  were 
down  on  the  beach  alone.  None  of  them  know  mo ;  and  a 
few  chance  questions  might  help  us  a  good  deal  as  to  the  point 
at  which  these  fellows  will  land.  Wait  here,  and  I  will  sec 
what  I  can  do." 


422  CLEVE    HALL. 

Mr.  Lester  deiiiurrod  to  the  separation  ;  btit  Mr.  Vivian's 
eagerness  would  not  stand  opposition,  and  lie  immediately  be- 
gan the  descent.  It  was  much  more  difficult  in  this  spot  than 
he  had  expected;  and,  in  trying  to  find  a  safe  footing,  he  was 
led  away  from  the  place  Avhere  he  had,  as  he  thought,  seen  the 
preventive  man  hiding ;  and  when  at  length  he  stood  upon  the 
beach,  the  rocks  appeared  heaped  one  upon  another  in  such  con- 
fusion that,  without  instituting  a  regular  search,  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  discover  him. 

Feeling  provoked  with  himself  for  his  useless  trouble,  Mr. 
Vivian  walked  along  the  shore  to  the  East  Point,  under  the 
idea  that  he  should  probably  meet  the  other  preventive  men 
of  whom  Ilardman  had  spoken.  His  thoughts  were  painfully 
busy,  and  his  attention  in  a  measure  withdrawn  from  the  pur- 
pose before  him.  That  rolling,  tossing  sea  was  as  the  image 
of  a  remorseless  fate;  its  dark,  green,  glassy  hollows  were 
types  of  the  dangers  which  had  opened  in  his  own  path,  and 
seemed  now  about  to  engulf  his  boy.  And  on  it  came, — piti- 
less, irresistible,  foaming  in  its  mocking  brightness,  tossing 
itself  in  the  pride  of  its  tremendous  power.  Could  there  be 
the  hope  of  success  in  struggling  against  it?  Mr.  Vivian's 
heart  failed  him  for  the  moment,  for  in  the  keenness  of  his 
fears  for  his  boy,  he  forgot  that  to  the  tide  of  life's  dangers,  as  to 
the  flow  of  the  great  ocean,  the  decree  has  been  pronounced, 
"  Hitherto  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther."  He  wandered  on 
to  the  East  Point.  A  boat  was  lying  close  tinder  the  cliff, 
upon  a  point  of  sand  left  by  the  tide,  which  had  just  begun 
to  ebb,  but  there  were  no  signs  of  the  preventive  men ;  and 
it  seemed  better  to  make  his  way  back  to  Mr.  Lester.  He 
turned ;  but  suddenly  found  himself  confronted  by  a  square- 
built  man,  wearing  a  slouched  hat  very  much  drawn  over  his 
fnce,  and  a  shaggy  sailor's  coat.  They  stopped  as  by  mutual 
consent. 

"  Rather  a  rough  evening,"  remarked  IMr.  Vivian. 

"  Rough  now,  and  likely  to  be  rougher  before  nightfall," 
was  the  reply.  The  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  of  careless 
boldness,  and  they  struck  Mr.  Vivian's  ears  with  a  painful 
shock  of  recollection ;  yet  he  was  not  certain,  and  he  dreaded 
to  betray  himself.  The  man  placed  himself  directly  in  his 
way,  and  continued,  "  Are  you  going  farther  ?" 

'*  I  thought  of  reaching  Dark  Head  Point  yonder.  There 
13  no  way  of  ascent  here." 

"  An  easier  one  than  you  think  for;"  and  the  man  strnck 


CLEVE    HALL.  423 

his  foot  upon  a  little  step  cut  in  the  cliff.  "  These  steps  will 
carry  you  to  the  top  direct,  aud  from  thence  it's  plain  sailing 
to  the  Point." 

"  Thank  j-ou,  but  I  prefer  the  shore."  JMr.  Vivian  would 
have  passed  on. 

"  We  don't  part  quite  so  quickly" — the  slouched  hat  was 
pushed  back,  and  the  speaker  stood  forth  in  the  moonlight  : 
"  Edward  Vivian,  there  is  no  disguise  from  me ;  I  know  yuu, 
and  I  would  have  a  word  with  you." 

"  John  ! — at  last  !"  and  Mr.  Vivian  instinctively  looked 
round  to  see  if  they  were  alone. 

^'  At  last  met,  and  well  met !'' 

"  "Well  met — never  I  There  is  that  bctweon  us  whicli  it 
were  wise  the  ocean  should  bury." 

''  Perhaps  so ;  yet  Old  Ocean  herself  cannot  always  keep 
her  secrets." 

"  I  have  business  on  my  hands  which  cannot  wait,"  said 
Mr.  Vivian.  "  Since  you  know  me,  you  will  know  also  that 
I  am  likely  to  give  you  many  more  opportunities  of  explana- 
tion." 

"  Were  it  the  business  of  the  united  world,  it  must  wait 
ray  pleasure ;  and  for  once" — and  Captain  Vivian  laughed 
bitterly — "  our  interests  are  the  same.  I  would  speak  to  you 
of  Clement." 

"  Clement ! — my  boy  !"  Mr.  Vivian  started  foi'ward,  and 
his  voice  was  lowered  with  intense  eagerness  :  "  John  !  you 
have  done  many  a  deadly  deed  to  me  and  mine,  but  help  me 
to  save  him,  and "  he  paused. 

That  very  evening  when  he  had  met  Bertha  at  the  cottage, 
he  had  heard,  in  hurried  words,  interrupted  by  anxiety  for 
Clement,  the  suspicions,  almost  the  certainty,  of  his  cousin's 
deep  treachery.     lie  dared  not  promise  to  forgive. 

"  And  what  ? — what  offer  of  good  will  Edward  Vivian  make 
to  the  man  whom  he  basely  deceived — whom  he  robbed  of  all 
that  his  heart  desired  !" 

"  Deceived  ! — robbed  ! — but  you  have  the  strong  hand 
over  me,  John.  Say  what  you  will,  we  will  seek  another  oc- 
casion for  that  tale." 

"  This  night's  meeting  is  our  first  and  last.  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  I  intend  to  wait  tamely,  and  witness  my  enemy's 
triumph  ?  I  must  be  a  different  man  now  from  what  I  was 
eighteen  years  ago  for  that  to  be  !" 

"■  The  questions  between  yourself  and  me  are  too  conipli. 


424  CLEVE   HALL. 

catetl,  and  lie  too  far  back  to  be  reached  at  a  time  like  thi.s," 
replied  Mr.  Vivian.  "  They  concern  not  my  present  need  ;  and 
be  the  consequences  what  they  may,  I  will  nut  enter  upon 
them."     He  would  have  passed  on. 

"  The  questions  between  yourself  and  nic  do  indeed  lie  far 
back,"  replied  Captain  Vivian,  placinir  himself  a<i:ain  in  his 
way,  and  settina;  his  teeth  firmly  together;  "but  if  they  are 
not  remedied  now  they  will  never  be;  and,  what  is  more,  the 
hour  will  come — yes,  even  before  this  night  has  passed  over 
your  head — when  you  will  wish  that  the  sea  had  sunk  you  in 
its  depths,  rather  than  you  had  refused  to  listen  to  me." 

"■  If  your  words  apply  to  my  unhappy  boy,"  replied  IMr. 
Vivian,  "  I  say  again  you  have  the  strong  hand  over  me. 
Speak  your  will." 

"  Not  here ;  we  may  be  interrupted.  The  preventive  men 
are  on  the  look-out,  and  will  be  coming  by." 

"  Here,  or  nowhere.  From  this  point  I  keep  watch  over 
the  shore,  and  may  aid  my  boy  when  he  may  not  be  able  to 
aid  himself." 

"  Pshaw  !  the  boy's  fate  is  in  my  hands.  Till  I  lift  my 
finger,  not  a  shadow  of  harm  can  happen  to  him." 

"  You  V  Mr.  Vivian  drew  back  from  him,  and  murmured, 
"  Can  revenge  be  carried  so  far  ?" 

"So  far!  ay,  and  much  farther!  Will  you  come?"  He 
placed  one  foot  upon  the  cliff. 

Mr.  Vivian  hesitated. 

"  Trust  me,  or  we  part  instantly,  and  Clement's  fate  is 
fixed." 

"I  follow  you.;"  but  Mi*.  Vivian  laid  his  hand  upon  his 
pistols. 

Captain  Vivian  saw  the  movement,  and  laughed:  "Cow- 
ard!" he  exclaimed;  "if  I  had  willed  you  mischief,  could  1 
not  carry  out  my  purpose  now,  even  here  as  we  stand  ?  ]3ut 
even  in  the  days  when  you  did  me  the  deepest  wrong,  your  life 
was  safe  in  my  hands." 

"You  are  right!"  was  Mr.  Vivian's  bitter  reply;  "the 
life  of  the  body  was  always  safe; — it  was  the  life  of  the  heart 
at  which  you  aimed  !  But  go  on ;  we  are  at  least  equal  in 
power;"  and  silently  and  hastily  he  followed  Captain  Vivian 
up  the  nigged  steps. 

They  stood  together  on  the  top  of  a  cliff  which  had  a  lower 
elevation  than  Dark  Head  Point,  yet,  like  it,  commanded  a 
wide  view  over  the  sea.     The  little  smuggling  vessel  was  still 


CLEVE    HALL.  425 

at  anchor  to  the  west  of  the  point.  There  wove  no  lights  on 
board,  nor  any  signs  of  movement.  On  the  summit  of  the 
Headland  several  figures  were  indistinctly  seen,  and  two  were 
pacing  up  and  down  at  some  distance  from  the  East  Point. 
Captain  Vivian  cast  a  hasty  glance  around  him,  and  then  drew 
near  a  pile  of  dried  fern,  furze,  and  brushwood,  collected,  as 
it  might  have  appeared,  accidentally,  or  perhaps  with  the  in- 
tention of  being  carried  away  for  fuel. 

''  We  are  safe  from  interriiption  here,"  he  said.  "  The 
preventives  have  gathered  together  after  their  prey  yonder" — 
and  he  pointed  to  the  Headland.  "  They  may  wait  to-night, 
and  to-morrow  night,  and  the  next,  if  I  will  it, — or  rather  if 
you  will  it." 

"  Let  us  have  few  words,  John :  for  what  purpose  have 
you  brought  me  here?" 

"  To  give  you  the  opportunity  of  saving  your  boy  from  dis- 
grace and  deadly  peril.  He  is  on  board  that  vessel  yonder: 
when  I  raise  my  signal  he  will  come  on  shore.  Would  you 
know  who  are  after  him  ?  Three  men  on  the  Headland — three 
on  the  shore — others  waiting  within  call.  But  the  smugglers 
are  not  men  to  give  up  their  prize  without  a  struggle.  They 
will  put  your  boy  first,  thinking  it  for  their  safety,  and  that 
the  preventives  will  deal  gently  with  him.  Trust  to  that  if 
you  will.  His  life  is  in  danger;  and  should  he  escape,  his 
deeds  will  be  blazoned  over  the  country,  as  a  disgrace  to  the 
proud  name  he  bears." 

"  Serpent  1"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vivian  ;  "  and  it  is  your  doing." 
'<  That  matters  not.  If  it  has  been  mine,  it  will  be  yours. 
Say  but  the  word,  and  the  smuggler  lies  quietly  at  her  anchor- 
age; the  preventives  are  outwitted;  and  a  boat  brings  your 
boy  on  shore,  with  nothing  against  him  but  the  rumor  of  his 
frolic." 

"  Your  price  ? — name  it !"  The  tone  was  agony  but  ill 
concealed  by  a  cold  haughtiness. 

"  I  might  take  you  at  your  word  and  ruin  you,  but  you  are 
poor  enough  already" — and  Captain  Vivian  laughed  mock- 
ingly. "  I  have  no  wish  to  injure  you;  I  require  only  that, 
•whatever  your  purpose  may  be  in  returning  to  Encombe,  there 
Bhall  be  no  raking  up  of  the  grievances  of  past  days — a  small 
favor  to  demand  for  saving  your  son  from  disgrace  and  it  may 
be  death." 

"A  small  fivor,  indeed;  too  small  if  it  had  not  a  hidden 
meiiiiin<_'.     J;.h!i  ' — inid  nil  the  bitteiness  of  long-smothered 


42G  CLEVE   HALL. 

cnniit}^  broke  out  in  tlic  words — ''from  my  heart  I  distrust 
you." 

"  'From  my  lioart  I  hate  you/  might  have  been  better/'  was 
the  sarcastic  reply. 

"No;  I  may  have  had  cause  enough,  but  God  knows  I 
have  forgiven, — I  would  forgive,  if  I  dared.    You  have  played 
a  desperate  game  against  me.     I  sec  it  now,  for  my  eyes  have  • 
been  opened.     It  was  you  who  ruined  me  with  my  father." 

"  And  you  who  ruined  me  with  the  woman  who  should 
have  been  my  wife."  Then  Avith  a  taunting  sneer,  which  per- 
haps concealed  the  pang  of  some  painful  memories,  Captain 
Vivian  continued:  "Let  by-goues  be  by-gones;  it  is  all  I 
ask." 

'•  And  if  it  is  only  by  recalling  by-goncs  that  I  can  explain 
myself  to  my  father,  then  to  promise  is  my  destruction." 

"  And  not  to  promise,  is  your  boy's." 

Mr.  Vivian  turned  away  to  contrul  the  agony  of  his  feel- 
ings. "  We  will  endeavor  to  understand  each  other,"  he  con- 
tinued, after  a  moment's  pause.  "  It  is  useless  to  endeavor  to 
persuade  me  that  the  stipulation  you  demand  is  of  no  conse- 
quence. It  is,  and  it  must  be  of  the  very  utmost  consequence 
to  me;  yet,  do  not  think  to  deceive  me,  too  well  I  know  that 
it  is  far  more  so  to  you." 

"  Prove  it !  prove  it !"  exclaimed  Captain  Vivian,  scorn- 
fully. He  clenched  his  hand,  and  muttered  between  his  closed 
teeth,  "  Would  I  have  put  myself  in  your  power,  if  you  could 
prove  it?" 

"I  care  not  for  legal  proof;  but  were  the  deed  hidden  in 
the  depths  of  the  earth,  it  should  come  forth  to  clear  me  with 
my  father,  and  to  be  an  eternal  dishonor  to  you.  I  make  no 
stipulations  with  a  forger." 

"  As  you  will."  Captain  Vivian  slowly  took  a  match  box 
from  his  pocket,  and  held  it  as  if  about  to  strike  a  light: 
"  The  first  blaze,  and  the  boat  makes  for  the  shore." 

"  Stay  !  stay  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vivian.  "  There  may  be  a 
compromise." 

"  No  compromise  I  Silence  for  ever  with  the  General  and 
with  the  world  upon  all  points — sworn  for  yourself,  your  sister, 
Mr.  Lester,  and  Bertha  Campbell." 

"  jNIy  oath  must  be  for  myself;  I  cannot  bind  others." 

"  It  must  be  given  by  them  also, — and  to-night,  before  two 
more  hours  have  passed." 


CLEYE    HALL.  427 

"  My  father  is  generous;  lie  will  never  raise  a  word  agaiust 
you  when  he  finds  that  I  am  under  a  promise  of  secrecy." 

''  General  Vivian's  licuerosity !  Ask  mc  rather  to  trust  to 
the  mercy  of  the  winds  and  of  the  waves.  Silence  or  dis- 
grace :  make  your  choice  between  them." 

He  struck  the  light.  Mr.  Vivian  caught  him  by  the  arm, 
and  the  movement  brought  the  burning  match  in  contact  with 
the  light  dry  brushwood.  The  flame  sprang  into  the  air,  and 
fast  and  wide  spread  the  rushing  blaze,  hissing  and  crackling 
among  the  withered  leaves  and  the  broken  twigs, — and  far 
away  across  the  sea  gleamed  the  cold  light  of  the  moon, — ■ 
darkened  by  one  black  speck,  as  the  smuggling-boat  made  its 
way  over  the  surging  waters  to  the  shore 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

THE  shore  was  safe,  for  it  was  deserted  before  the  boat  had 
landed.  The  four  men  who  rowed,  had  loaded  themselves 
with  the  tubs,  and  were  making  their  way  towards  the  cliff. 
A  fifth  lingered  behind,  and  with  him  came  Clement  Vivian. 
He  walked  slowly  and  doubtfully, — not  with  the  eager  energy 
of  a  boy  in  the  height  of  his  adventurous  spirits.  His  step 
was  unequal ;  his  head  turned  quickly  from  one  side  to  the 
other.  Perhaps  he  was  planning  an  escape,  but  his  companion 
kept  close  by  his  side  and  urged  him  on. 

They  reached  the  foot  of  the  cliffs,  and  the  men  paused  and 
gathered  together.  Mark  Wood  was  foremost.  They  looked 
up  at  the  cliff,  then  took  a  survey  of  the  shore. 

"  Safe !  now  for  it ;  along  the  ledge  to  the  cave !  Come, 
youngster ;"  and  the  man  who  seemed  to  have  charge  of  Cle- 
ment stood  back  to  put  him  first:  "  It's  plain  sailing." 

Clement  delayed:  "I  have  had  my  frolic;  I  will  go  no 
farther." 

"  What !  that's  new  talking  I — up,  I  say."  He  would  have 
pushed  Clement  forward,  but  the  boy  drew  ^jack  indignantly  : 
"  Touch  me  again,  if  you  dare." 

"On,  young  blaster — on,  for  your  life;"  and  ^lark  Wood 
drew  near,  and  pointed  to  a  projecting  angle  of  the  cliff  above 
them,  where  a  dark  immovable  spot  was  to  be  seen. 


428  CLEVE    HALL. 

The  nion  as  with  one  consent  began  to  scale  the  cliff",  not 
by  the  path,  but  b}'  ledges,  corners,  shelving  rocks,  often  Avith 
a  footing  which  a  goat  could  scarcely  have  held ;  and  not  in 
the  direction  of  the  cave,  but  away  beyond  the  Headland,  to  a 
point  which  all  seemed  to  know  as  by  instinct.  They  reached 
a  smooth  ledge,  wide  enough  for  them  to  stand  together.  The 
clitf  rose  perpendicularly  behind  them ;  before  them  a  huge 
rock,  which  seemed  about  to  precipitate  itself  into  the  sea, 
threw  a  dark  shadow  on  their  resting-place.  They  waited  to 
take  breath.  Clement,  who  had  followed  them  with  difficulty, 
approached  Mark:  "Is  there  danger?  Are  the  preventives 
abroad  i"' 

♦'  Above  and  around,  that  black  liead  was  ou  the  look-out, — 
now  on." 

Before  Clement  could  ask  another  question,  !Mark  w{i.=5  lead- 
ing the  way  again,  but  now  in  a  different  dix'ection,  towards 
the  cave.  He  stopped  after  he  had  gone  some  paces,  and 
muttered  a  few  words  to  Clement's  first  guide.  The  man  evi- 
dently differed  from  him,  and  Mark  spoke  angrily,  and  went 
on  by  himself.  The  four  who  were  left  kept  close  to  Clement. 
A  sound  like  a  call,  which  might,  however,  have  been  nothing 
more  than  the  wind,  fell  on  the  ear,  and  it  was  answered  by 
Clement's  guide.  The  others  interchanged  a  few  words  :  "  The 
cave's  free  for  us  !" 

"  Was  that  the  cry  ?" 

"  Yes ;  didn't  you  hear  ?" 

"  All  right  \"  and  they  went  on. 

They  were  drawing  near  the  cave.  From  the  west  side  it 
was  difficult  of  approach — the  ledge  was  narrow,  and  the  angle 
by  which  it  was  entered  sharp.  The  men  settled  the  tubs  on 
their  shoulders,  and  seemed  prepared  for  a  false  step.  Mark 
Wood,  who  had  been  considerably  in  advance,  came  back. 
Clement  heard  him  say :  "  I've  a  doubt  that  we're  in  for  it, 
Hale  ;  let  him  go." 

"  Go,  and  peach  ?"  was  Hale's  answer.  "You  are  a  fool ; 
on  with  you."  He  thrust  Mark  forward,  and  then  looked 
back  to  Clement :  "  Keep  close,  youngster.  If  I  throw  you 
the  tub,  you'll  know  how  to  carry  it;"  and  they  moved  for- 
ward again,  one  by  one,  with  slow  and  cautious  steps,  clinging 
to  the  cliff",  and  once  or  twice  sliding  where  the  footing  waa 
too  unsteady  for  support. 

Mark  turned  the  corner  first;  Clement  and  Hale  follownd. 
riiey  were  then  before  the  entrance  of  the  cave. 


CLEVE   HALL.  420 

"Now,  youngster!  I  must  be  left  free."  Hale  took  the 
tub  from  his  shoulder. 

"  Best  not,"  whispered  Mark,  drawing  him  within  the 
passage  :  "  look  below." 

A  body  of  the  coast-guard  were  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff;  a 
little  behind  lingered  Mr.  Vivian. 

"  In  with  you,  man — in  :  clear  the  way;"  and  Hale  forced 
Mark  into  the  cave,  and  tossed  the  tub  upon  the  ground.  The 
others  followed  his  example. 

A  shout  rose  from  below,  and  the  preventive  men  hurried 
up  the  cliff,  followed  by  Mr.  Vivian. 

"  Stand  to  it  boldly  !  for  your  life."  The  smugglers  placed 
themselves  before  the  cave,  and  Clement  stood  with  them, — 
his  spirit  excited  by  the  danger. 

"  Clement !  Master  Clement !  this  way,"  shouted  Mark 
from  within ;  but  Clement  did  not  or  would  not  hear.  The 
preventive  men  were  nearly  ou  a  level  with  the  Cave — Dennis 
and  Ryan  foremost. 

"  A  step  nearer,  and  we  fire  !"  shouted  the  smugglers,  and 
the  preventive  men  drew  back. 

There  was  a  mutual  pause.  Whilst  the  two  parties  con- 
fronted each  other,  Mr.  Vivian  unperceived,  scrambling, 
clinging  to  the  side  of  the  cliff,  advanced  to  the  smugglers' 
rear,  and  seized  Hale's  arm.  The  preventive  men  rushed 
forward.  Hale  strove  violently  to  extricate  himself,  and  his 
companions  came  to  his  rescue.  A  desperate,  deadly  struggle 
began. 

"  Clement !  Clement !"  called  out  a  voice  of  thunder,  in  the 
tumult,  "  up  the  clift", — to  the  left !  for  the  sake  of  Heaven — 
for  your  father's  sake  \"  and  the  boy,  terrified  yet  excited, 
looked  round  him  with  the  impulse  to  obey. 

"Not  to  the  clifis — through  tl.e  cave;  Mark  Wood  waits 
you  there." 

It  was  Ronald  Vivian,  who  standing  before  the  cave,  spoke 
hurriedly,  yet  in  tones  low,  and  deep,  and  clear. 

Clement  paused  for  one  moment  in  indecision,  and  the 
grasp  of  Dennis,  the  preventive  man,  was  laid  upon  his  collar. 

"  A  prisoner !  a  prisoner!"  he  exclaimed;  but  a  sudden 
blow  from  Ronald  felled  him  to  the  ground.  Ho  rose  again 
instantly,  and  they  grappled  together. 

"  Into  the  cave,"  shouted  Ronald,  turning  his  heiid  for  a 
fCCOT'd  ;  and  Clement  waited  no  longer. 

"Ronald  Vivian  to  be  dealt  with  at  last!"  burst  from  the 


430  CLEVE   HALL. 

lips  of  Dennis,  maddened  at  recognising  the  boy  from  whose 
hands  the  blow  had  been  received. 

jNIr.  A'ivian  heard  the  call :  "  Save  him  ! — do  liini  no  injury ; 
I  will  bear  you  free;"  but  his  call  was  in  vain. 

The  contest  with  Hale  and  his  comrades  had  ended  in 
ITalc's  capture.  The  other  smugglers  had  escaped,  but  not 
without  pursuit  from  the  preventive  men.  Kyan,  however, 
remained  behind,  and  came  to  the  assistance  of  Dennis. 

"  Yield,  or  we  fire  I"  was  the  cry. 

But  Ronald  fought  desperately,  for  danger  to  him  was 
safety  to  Clement. 

"  Yield !  llonald,  yield !"  called  Mr.  Vivian,  and  he 
placed  himself  by  his  side. 

A  dark  face,  not  till  that  moment  seen,  peered  from  behind 
a  rock,  and  a  pistol  was  levelled  at  Mr.  Vivian's  head. 

"Ha!  Goff!  the  scoundrel  1"  shouted  llyan,  catching  the 
outline  of  the  well-known  features.  He  moved  aside,  and  a 
bullet  aimed  at  Mr.  Vivian,  whizzed  past,  and  llonald,  struck 
by  it  in  the  shoulder,  fell  to  the  ground. 

"Murder!"  The  cry  echoed  wildly  amongst  the  rocks,  as 
the  men,  catching  a  momentary  glimpse  of  Goff,  followed  him 
down  the  cliff  and  along  the  shore.  It  was  a  frantic  chase, 
over  the  loose  shingles,  and  rough  stones,  with  masses  of 
broken  cliff  impeding  them.  Goff  kept  close  by  the  cliff,  the 
path  most  difficult  of  pursuit.  On,  with  the  speed  of  a  maniac, 
— for  safety  or  for  ruin  ;  on,  to  the  East  Point.  Behind  it,  in 
a  little  cove,  lies  a  small  boat;  and  there  waits  Captain  Vivian, 
ready,  eager  to  carry  him  to  the  vessel  which  will  be  his  har- 
bor of  safety. 

He  was  close  upon  the  Point;  the  path  was  diflacult — the 
moon  had  become  darkened;  he  stumbled,  and  the  delay 
brought  his  pursuers  near.  Their  voices  were  heard  high 
above  the  booming  of  the  waves,  and  the  inci'easing  roar  of  the 
wind.  Concealment !  no,  it  was  impossible ;  the  spot  which 
he  had  reached  was  bare  of  the  sheltering  rocks.  Escape  by 
the  cliffs  !  impossible  also ;  they  rose  frowning  above  him, — 
no  longer  easy  of  access.  He  turned  towards  the  edge  of  the 
.shore,  and  shouted  long  and  loud ;  and  a  little  boat  manned 
by  one  person  rounded  the  Point.  It  was  lifted  high  by  the 
waves,  then  again  it  sank, — for  a  moment  it  might  have  been 
thought  engulfed, — it  could  not  near  the  beach. 

''  Rascal !  scoundrel !"  shouted  the  preventive  men.  They 
were   rushiuo;  from   the   cliff;    their  feet  were  crashin-j;  the 


CLEVE    HALL.  431 

pebbles.  He  almost  felt  tbcir  grasp ; — one  plunge,  and  lie 
was  breasting  the  waves  towards  the  boat.  The  foaming 
water  rose  high,  and  he  was  hidden  ; — it  broke  upon  the  shore, 
and  his  black,  shaggy  head  was  seen  rising  as  a  spot  in  the 
moonlight. 

Fierce  and  strong  are  the  angry  billows, — they  are  bearing 
him  away  from  the  boat.  He  sees  it,  and  one  hand  is  uplifted, 
and  a  howl  of  terror  comes  across  the  watery  waste.  He  is 
struggling, — his  head  is  tossed  as  a  plaything  by  the  crested 
waves.  The  boat  is  drawing  near ;  he  will  be  saved, — yes,  he 
must  be ; — his  hand  is  actually  touching  the  boat. 

And  the  grasp  is  faint,  and  the  waves  are  strong,  and — 
the  wretched,  guilty  head  moves  with  one  agonizing  effort, 
and  sinks,  to  be  lost  to  sight  for  ever. 


CHAPTEK  XLVIII. 


EONALD  lay  upon  the  ground,  the  blood  oozing  fast  from 
;  his  shoulder ;  by  him  knelt  Mr.  Vivian,  vainly  endeavor- 
ing to  stanch  the  wound.  The  shouts  of  the  men,  and  the 
cries  of  pursuit,  reached  them  as  distant  echoes.  Mr.  Vivian 
thought  that  Ronald  had  fainted,  but  he  was  still  sensible,  only 
growing  weaker  and  weaker — his  sight  becoming  dim,  his  lips 
refusing  to  utter  a  sound.  Mr.  Vivian  made  him  rest  against 
his  knee,  and  spoke  to  him.  There  was  a  feeble  smile  upon 
the  cold,  white  lips ;  and  Mr.  Vivian  took  off  his  coat,  and 
making  it  into  a  pillow,  laid  Ronald's  head  gently  upon  it,  and 
leaving  him  for  an  instant,  went  a  few  steps  forward  and  called, 
but  received  no  answer.  The  spot  a  few  minutes  before  so 
dizzy  with  tumult,  was  now  utterly  deserted. 

He  came  back  again,  and  groped  his  way  into  the  cave.  It 
was  quite  dark;  but  sonicthing  soft  lay  on  the  ground, — a 
coat,  and  he  took  it  up  and  felt  in  the  pocket.  It  contained 
a  small  flask.  Mr.  Vivian  brought  this  out  into  the  light,  and 
moistened  Ronald's  lips  with  the  brandy  which  was  in  it,  and 
covered  him  with  the  coat.  He  was  a  little  revived  then,  and 
it  seemed  possible  to  move  him  within  the  shelter  of  the  rock; 
but  the  start  when  he  was  touched,  showed  that  the  attempt 
would  be  agony. 

In  despair  Mr.  A'ivi:;u  called  ag;!in  ;  and  (his  time  a  voice 


432  CLEVE   HALL. 

answered  him,  but  from  within  the  cave ;  and  the  rattle  of 
stones,  accompanied  by  a  few  hasty  ejaculations,  was  followed 
by  the  appearance  of  3Iark  Wood. 

lie  came  forward  with  stealthy  steps,  clancing  doubtfully 
at  Mr.  A^ivian ;  but  the  sight  of  Ronald's  ghastly  features 
seemed  to  give  him  courage  to  draw  neai*.  "  You  called,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,  I  called."  Mr.  Vivian  pointed  to  Ronald  :  "  He 
has  been  wounded  in  the  skirmish,  and  we  must  move  him." 

"The  sharks!  Cowardly  villains!  Are  they  gone?" 
JMavk  went  a  few  steps  down  the  cliff. 

Mr.  Vivian  called  him  back  :  "  Clone  now,  but  they  may 
return.     It  was  not  they  who  did  it." 

"All  safe  now,"  muttered  Mark.  He  put  his  arm  under 
Ronald  tenderly. 

"  We  must  have  more  help,"  said  Mr.  Vivian. 

"By-and-by;  we'll  take  him  inside  first.  Stay!" — he 
lighted  a  match  and  set  fire  to  a  brand,  which  he  thrust  into  a 
crevice  of  the  rock, — "  that  will  do  to  show  the  way.  Now 
then;"  and  with  Mr.  Vivian's  assistance  he  raised  Ronald,  and 
disregarding  the  moaning  which  showed  the  suffering  he 
caused,  bore  him  into  the  cave. 

'Some  straw  and  dried  fern  leaves  lay  in  a  heap  in  one 
corner,  and  over  this  Mr.  Vivian  stretched  the  coat  with  which 
Ronald  had  been  covered.  He  was  then  laid  upon  it ;  and 
Mark  proceeded  to  collect  together  some  dried  sticks,  which  he 
lighted. 

Mr.  Vivian  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise.  "  Is  he 
safe  ?"  he  said.     "  The  preventive  men  may  be  back." 

"Safe  enough,  just  now.  We've  left  a  couple  of  kegs  in 
their  way  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff",  which  they'll  seize,  and  then, 
ten  to  one,  be  off".  They've  caught  Hale,  and  are  after  the 
others." 

"  But  if  they  look  for  him  ?"  and  Mr.  Vivian  glanced  at 
Ronald. 

"  He's  as  safe  here  as  elsewhere.  If  we  tried  to  get  him 
home,  we  should  meet  them  on  the  cliffs.  An  hour  hence  it 
will  all  be  right  enough.  Now,  give  him  another  taste  of  the 
brandy-flask,  and  see  if  he'll  come-to  more." 

The  warmth  of  the  fire,  and  the  cordial,  had  the  effect 
desired  for  a  few  moments,  but  Ronald  soon  sank  back  again 
into  his  former  state;  and  Mr.  Vivian,  greatly  alarmed,  in- 


CLEVE   HALL.  433 

sistcd  upoQ  the  necessity  of  summoulng  more  aid.     jMr.  Les- 
ter, he  said,  was  certainly  within  reach. 

"  The  Parson!  He's  off  home  with  the  young  gentleman. 
Twas  he  who  met  me,  and  bade  me  come  back.  I  shouldn't 
bive  ventured  myself  so  soon  again  within  reach  of  the  sharks, 
f  it  hadn't  been  for  him." 

Ronald  slowly  opened  his  eyes,  and  by  the  lurid  light  of 
the  fire  Mr.  Vivian  saw  that  his  lips  moved.  He  bent  down, 
uid  heard  the  word  "  Clement." 

«  Safe,  thank  God  !" 

Ronald  smiled,  and  his  head  fell  back. 

They  waited  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  longer  in 
silence — Mark  keeping  up  the  tire,  and  occasionally  watching 
at  the  entrance  of  the  cave ;  whilst  Mr.  Vivian,  supporting 
Ronald,  stanching  his  wound,  and  from  time  to  time  forcing 
him  to  sip  the  flask  of  brandy,  succeeded  at  length  in  restor- 
ing him  to  some  degree  of  strength. 

His  sufferings,  however,  became  greater  as  his  power  in- 
creased. A  suppressed  groan  followed  every  attempt  to  move 
him,  and  a  clearer  consciousness  brought  a  look  of  anguish  to 
his  face,  which  Mr.  Vivian  vainly  endeavored  to  read. 

"  H'  we  had  another  hand  we  might  move  him  now,"  said 
INIark,  returning  to  Ronald's  couch,  after  another  survey  of  the 
cliff. 

Ronald  raised  his  hand,  as  a  sign  against  it. 

Mr.  Vivian  replied  to  the  gesture  :  "  You  must  not  remain 
here,  Ronald  ;  it  will  kill  you.  Mr.  Lester  will  come,  and  we 
will  carry  you  very  gently." 

He  looked  impatient,  and  beckoned  to  Mark.  Mr.  Vivian 
moved  aside. 

"  Sad  work.  Master  Ronald,"  said  Mark,  compassionately. 
"  What  made  you  mix  yourself  up  with  us  ?" 

"  My  father,"  murmured  Ronald,  taking  no  notice  of  the 
question — "  where  is  he  ?" 

Mark  glanced  at  Mr.  Vivian,  who  was,  howcTor,  too  far  olf 
to  hear  the  answer. 

''Gone  on  board,  by  this  time.  He  was  to  be  off  to  tlu; 
vessel,  so  we  were  told,  as  soon  as  the  second  light  flamed  up." 

"  On  board, — away  !"  A  look  of  convulsive  agony  crossed 
Ro  aid's  face. 

"  Not  away,  yet.  She's  off  there  still,  I  take  it ;  and  pretty 
close  she  was  five  minutes  ago." 

"  I  must  see  him." 
19 


4o4  CLEVE    HALL. 

*'  To  be  sure;  lic'll  be  back,  if  not  to-night,  tu-niorrow." 

'*  No,  no  ;  to-night, — now." 

"  Not  so  easy  that — the  Captain's  not  to  be  scut  foi"  in  a 
moment ;  and  he's  gone  for  a  purpose." 

"  It  must  be, — it  must.  Mark,  wlio  knows  ?  I  may  be 
dying." 

"Not  so  bad  as  that,  Master  llomdd.  You've  had  a  good 
knock,  hovo7:r  it  happened  ;  but  you'll  come  round.  Let  mo 
just  go  and  get  a  helping  hand,  and  we'll  have  you  at  the 
Grange  before  half  an  hour's  over  our  heads." 

The  mention  of  the  Grange  renewed  llonald's  excitement, 
and  he  exclaimed  vehemently,  "  Not  there." 

His  accent  caused  Mr.  Vivian  to  draw  nearer.  Ronald 
raised  his  glassy  eyes  to  his  with  a  glance  of  mingled  confi- 
dence and  despair;  and  as  Mr.  Vivian  stooped  to  be  nearer  to 
him,  he  took  hold  of  his  hand,  and  held  it  within  his  own,  and 
tried  to  speak,  and  then  the  words  seemed  to  fail,  and  he  mut- 
tered something  unintelligible. 

"  You  have  a  wish, — let  me  hear  it;   it  shall  be  granted." 

"  Let  my  father  come  now — safe." 

"  He  shall  come  and  be  safe,  if  it  is  in  my  power  to  briug 
him;  we  will  take  you  home,  and  you  shall  see  him." 

"  Here  !  here  ! — not  home." 

Mark  interposed,  and  drew  Mr.  Vivian  aside.  "  It  would 
never  do,"  he  said,  "to  take  Master  Ilonald  at  his  fancy;  it 
might  be  easy  enough  to  get  hold  of  the  Captain,  who  was 
sure  to  be  on  board  the  vessel,  and  within  call ; — but  to  leave 
him  there  on  the  ground, — he  would  be  shot  himself  sooner." 

"  It  frets  him  to  insist  upon  moving  him,"  replied  Mr. 
Vivian ;  "  and  it  will  really  make  but  little  difiFerence.  Let 
Captain  Vivian  come,  if  you  know  where  to  find  him ;  and 
when  he  comes,  let  me  go  into  the  village  for  further  help.  I 
will  bring  back  a  surgeon  with  me.  There  -will  be  less  delay 
then,  and " 

A  faint  call  from  Ronald  summoned  Mr.  Vivian  again  to 
his  side.  His  fiice  was  bright  with  thankfulness :  "  Let 
Mark  tell  him  quickly.  To-morrow" — and  the  light  of  his 
eye  became  darkened,  and  his  voice  grew  fainter — "  I  may 
not  need  him." 

Mr.  Vivian  pressed  his  hand  affectionately,  and  repeated 
the  order. 

Yet  Mark  still  lingered.  "  'Twas  a  mad  errand,"  he  said, 
as  he  once  more  appealed  to  Mr.  Vivian;  "and  likely  to  be 


CLEYE    HALL.  435 

tlie  boy's  deatli — waiting  there  instead  of  being  tended.  And 
if  the  Captain  came,  it  might  be  sore  work  for  them  :  no  one 
knew  what  he  would  be  Uke  when  things  went  contrary.     If 

they  might  have  taken  Ronald  to  the  Grange "  He  stopped 

suddenly,  for  a  moan  escaped  from  Honald,  drawn  from  him 
by  excessive  pain.  Yet  even  then  he  waved  his  hand  for 
jMark  to  leave  him ;  and  Mr.  Vivian  seconding  the  entreaty^ 
the  man  departed. 

The  time  of  Mark's  absence  seemed  hours  to  Mr.  Vivian. 
It  would  have  been  unendurable  but  for  the  thought  of  Cle- 
ment's safety — that  was  comfort  through  everything;  and 
Ronald's  wan  face  was  a  sufficient  reproach,  when  impatience 
was  about  to  master  him.  Yet  as  the  moments  passed  on, 
many  doubts  as  to  the  prudence  of  agreeing  to  his  wish  sug- 
gested themselves  :  danger  from  the  preventive  men  ;  the  pos- 
sibility that  Mark  would  not  be  able  to  manage  his  boat ;  the 
difficulty  of  landing  again ; — obstacles  which  Mark  had  not 
appeared  to  contemplate,  but  which  seemed  aggravated,  as 
Ronald's  suffering  evidently  increased,  and  the  necessity  for 
surgical  aid  became  more  and  more  urgent. 

He  scarcely  thought  of  himself,  his  own  fears  and  hopes, 
and  plans  for  the  future.  He  could  but  look  at  the  pale  coun- 
tenance of  the  noble  boy,  so  suddenly  struck  down  in  the 
pride  of  his  strength,  and  think  of  the  short,  stormy  life,  with 
its  strong  impulses,  its  earnest  resolve,  and  unflinching  will — 
and  ponder  upon  the  deep  mystery  that  one  so  formed  for  good 
should  have  been  placed  under  the  dominion  of  evil.  It  was 
a  thought  only  to  be  borne  by  the  remembrance  of  that  inscru- 
table Wisdom  which  "  searcheth  the  heart,"  and  "  knoweth 
what  is  in  man,"  and  will  require  only  what  has  been  given. 
And  bitterly  in  contrast  rose  up  before  Mr.  Vivian's  memory 
the  recollections  of  his  own  boyhood — with  virtuous  examples, 
the  rules  of  strict  rectitude,  the  support  of  an  honorable  name, 
the  prospect  of  a  fair  inheritance  to  lure  him  to  good;  yet  all 
deserted,  and  bringing  upon  him  only  a  severer  condemna- 
tion. What  we  might  have  been  !  It  is  a  terrible  thought 
to  realize  ? 

"Mr.  Vivian," — Ronald  stretched  out  his  hand  and  touched 
him;   ''are  they  coming?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  tiiink  not;  but  I  will  see."  He  went 
out  to  l(X)k,  and  returned  :  "  The  boat  has  left  the  vessel ;  I 
can't  tell  who  is  in  it." 

"  My  father  will  be  here — you  mu-^t  go." 


43G  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  Not  till  he  comes." 

*' Yes,  before — now;  raise  me."  And  Mr.  Vivian  lifted 
him  up,  and  made  him  support  himselC  against  the  wall.  He 
spoke  more  easily  then,  and  seemed  relieved  by  the  chant^e  of 
position:  "Now  go,  please;  quickly."  Yet  as  Mr.  Vivian 
looked  towards  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  he  held  him  back  : 
''  One  word.     I  have  done  what  I  could  ;    you  are  satisfied?" 

"  Fully — entirely — thankfully;  more  than  tongue  can  tell." 

"  But  I  have  not  done  all.     I  will  try." 

"  But  not  now.  Oh  !  llonald,  is  it  for  my  sake  you  would 
see  your  father  ?" 

"  I  told  Miss  Campbell  I  would  do  the  r..'„most;  if  I  am  to 
die,  I  must  do  it." 

*' You  have  done  everything  that  could  be  required;  and 
more,  a  thousand  times.  It  is  for  Clement's  sake  that  you  arc 
here  now." 

"  The  utmost,"  repeated  Ronald ;  "  it  was  my  promise. 
Tell  her  I  kept  it.  And  you  will  pardon  him  if  the  offence 
were — "  he  stopped  suddenly. 

"  I  know  what  it  was." 

Ronald  let  Mr.  Vivian's  hand  drop,  and  turned  his  face  to 
the  wall. 

Mr.  Vivian  continued,  quietly,  "  I  will  not  tell  you  now, 
Ronald,  how  it  was  discovered.  But  one  thing  may  satisfy 
you, — there  is  no  legal  proof;  I  could  not  bring  it  home  to 
him,  if  I  would." 

Ronald  turned  slowly  round  and  fixed  his  ghastly  eyes  upon 
him  :  "  Then  the  evil  to  you  is  done." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  without  remedy  ?" 

"Without  remedy  from  him,  except  by  his  own  confession  : 
that  might  indeed  help  me  with  my  father." 

'^  You  shall  have  it.  When  it  is  in  your  hands,  and  I  am 
gone,  Mr.  Vivian,  you  will  save  his  name  from  disgrace." 

Mr.  Vivian  seized  his  hand :  ''  Disgrace  cannot  attach  to 
the  name  you  bear,  Ronald :  whatever  your  father  may  have 
done  to  tarnish  it,  you  have  nobly  redeemed  it." 

He  did  not  smile  nor  answer,  but  a  tear  rolled  down  his 
cheek,  and  his  lip  quivered  with  anguish.  He  recovered  him- 
self again  quickly,  and  pointing  towards  the  entrance,  said : 
"  Look  out ;  when  they  are  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  you  must 
go.     Hark :" 


CLEVE    HALL.  437 

''God  bless  you,  and  lielp  you,  Ronald;"  and  IMr.  Yiviau 
held  Ronald's  hand  with,  lingering  afiectiou. 

''Go!  go!" 

Ronald's  face  grew  troubled  and  eager ;  yet  as  Mr.  Vivian 
left  the  cave,  his  eye  rested  upon  bini  with  an  expression  that 
would  fain  have  asked  him  to  return. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


"  17^  II !  Ronald  !  my  lad  !  in  a  scrape  and  calling  for  rae  to 
I  J  help  you  out !  That  comes  of  not  keeping  to  quarters. 
How  on  earth  you  got  loose  passes  me."  Captain  Vivian 
entered  the  cave  blusteringly.  He  would  not  listen  to  Mark's 
request  to  tread  with  caution,  and  in  the  dim  light  of  the  dying 
embers  scarcely  distinguished  where  his  sou  lay  stretched  upon 
his  rough  bed. 

"  No  one  here,"  said  Mark  groping  around,  and  collecting 
some  more  sticks.  "You'll  see,  Captain,  that  it's  as  I  said; 
he's  mortal  bad" — and  he  held  a  lighted  brand  so  as  to  cast  a 
gleam  upon  Ronald's  face,  and  then  walked  away  to  the 
entrance. 

Captain  Vivian  snatched  the  brand  from  bim,  drew  near, 
looked, — then  throwing  the  torch  aside,  staggered  back  against 
the  wall. 

"Father!"  Ronald's  voice  was  hollow  as  a  call  from  the 
grave. 

Captain  Vivian  threw  himself  on  the  ground  beside  bim. 

"Shot!  my  boy,  my  poor  boy!  The  rascals!  Rut  we'll 
be  revenged.  We'll  get  ytu  on  board,  and  look  after  you,  and 
yuu'll  do  well ;  there's  no  doubt  of  that.  Many's  the  ugly 
touch  I've  had  myself.     Here  !  Mark." 

"  Stay,  Father.     I  must  not  go  :  listen." 

"  Listen  !  to  be  sure.     The  rascals  !  I'll  be  revenged." 

"  It  was  not  they.  It  matters  not  who  it  was ;  I  would  for- 
get revenge." 

"  Forget  it :  you  may;  but  I  tell  you,  Runald,  the  reckoning 
shall  be  kept  till  the  last  hour  of  my  life — ay,  and  paid  too." 

"Then  your  reckoning  must  be  with  Golf.  He  raised  the 
pistol;  I  saw  him.     It  was  levelled  at  3Ir.  Vivian." 


438  CLEVE    HALL. 

No  answer  came,  only  a  quick  gasp  of  breathless  horror. 

"It  is  for  jMr.  Vivian  to  rcvoniie,"  continued  Kunald. 
"  Father  !  can  you  hear  me  ?  can  you  listen  to  nie  V  for  Caj)- 
tain  Vivian  was  kneeling  upright, — his  form  rigid,  his  eyes 
fixed. 

"  Revenge !  let  him  seek  it  duwn  in  the  green  ocean — 
down,  down ;  he  will  nut  find  it.  Let  him  luok  for  it, — it  is 
gone." 

"  Father !  speak  to  me, — oh,  horrible  !"  and  Ronald  raised 
himself  for  a  moment,  and  sank  back  shuddering  and  exhausted. 

''  lie's  gone,  my  boy;  don't  think  of  him,  ilouald.  House 
up — we'll  forget.     Where's  Mark  ?" 

Mark  came,  and  Ronald's  lips  were  moistened  with  bnindy, 
and  he  found  strength  to  utter,  "  Is  he  killed  T' 

"  Drowned,  Master  Ronald,"  said  Mark,  coolly.  "  I  heard 
it  said  as  I  came  across  the  Common;  but  I  don't  understand 
the  rights  of  it  all." 

"Drowned,  Ronald,  my  boy;"  and  Captain  Vivian  stood 
up,  and  drew  near  to  Mark  with  an  air  of  restored  coulidence. 
"Rut  we  won't  talk  of  him,  now.  Mark  and  I  will  put  you 
into  the  boat,  and  be  off  to  the  vessel,  and  see  to  you  to-night; 
and  to-morrow,  if  it's  needed,  we'll  get  more  help — but  I'm  a 
clever  surgeon  myself." 

Ronald  motioned  Mark  away :  "  Raise  me,  father.  Drowned, 
lost  in  the  deep  waters  I"  He  hid  his  face  with  his  trembling 
hand.     "  Oh,  God  !  have  mercy  !  it  is  Thy  judgment." 

"  Cheer  up,  my  boy;  don't  think." 

"  He  is  gone.  Father.  I  may  be  going  too.  Where  ? — ■ 
where?"  he  repeated,  and  he  caught  his  father's  hand,  and 
held  it  with  all  the  little  strength  he  retained. 

"  We  can't  think  ;  we  don't  know  till  the  time  comes.  Why 
trouble  yourself,  my  poor  lad  T' 

"Oh!  it  is  time  now;  there  is  no  other  time.  Father, 
think,  repent.     God  will  hear  now." 

"  Too  late  for  me !"  and  Captain  Vivian's  voice  slightly 
trembled.     "  Well  enough  for  you." 

"  His  body  lies  beneath  the  waves,  his  soul  is  before  God," 
murmured  Ronald,  shuddering;  "  and  he  had  so  many  crimea 
to  burden  it." 

"  May  be  so ;  but  none  can  toll  what  excuses  may  be  at 
hand  for  liini  or  for  any  one.  There's  no  need  to  talk  of 
him." 

"Father;  ye-!, — let  me  Init  speak  now.     If  only  one  sin 


CLEVE   HALL.  439 

ev'juld  be  lightened,  death  would  be  less  terrible.  Is  it  not  so  ? 
tell  me;  answer." 

"  If  it  could  be,  but  past  is  past." 

"No,  no,  it  is  present;  it  never  dies;  it  will  come  full 
again.     But  it  may  be  repented  of,  then  it  cannot  harm." 

"  My  poor  lad  !  He's  wandering."  Captain  Vivian  bent 
down  anxiously. 

''  Father,  I  speak  truth;  I  know  what  I  say.  Oh  !  by  the 
thought  of  that  fearful  death — that  awful  judgment,  do  not 
turn  from  me." 

"  If  sorrow's  necessary,  I'm  sorry  enough,"  was  the  moody 
answer;  "but  I  didn't  come  here  to  talk  of  it." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  and  Ronald  almost  sat  upright  in  his  ea- 
gerness. "  It  was  for  that  I  sent  for  you.  I  may  be  dying; 
God  knows.  I  could  not  carry  the  load  to  my  grave.  Father, 
our  name  has  been  pledged  to  dishonor, — disgrace;  it  has 
caused  Mr.  Vivian's  ruin." 

"Not  caused  it:  it  was  his  own  doing.  None  could  have 
touched  him  if  he  hadn't  dealt  the  first  blow  himself." 

"  But  the  work  he  began — it  was  completed  by  you." 

"  Then  it's  done,  and  it  can't  be  undone." 

"  It  may  be.  Oh !  indeed  it  may.  It  may  be  acknow- 
ledged, and  to  the  utmost  extent  of  your  means,  the  sum  may 
be  restored." 

"  Acknowledge  !  Restore  !  Why,  he  knows  all ;  he  would 
pursue  me  to  the  last  gasp  to  be  revenged  on  me.  He  would 
take  from  me  every  penny  I  possess,  and  leave  me  to  beggary, 
if  it  were  possible." 

"  He  has  promised  to  forgive,  and  his  word  is  honor.  If 
it  were  not,  when  we  have  injured  others,  God  will  never  for- 
give us,  without  confession  and  reparation." 

"  I  don't  know  where  jow  learnt  your  teaching ;  it's  not 
toy  doing." 

"  I  learnt  it  from  my  mother,  when  I  said  my  prayers  to 
her.  She  talked  of  it  when  she  was  dying.  She  would  repeal 
it  now.  Father,  your  confession  may  replace  Mr.  Vivian  at 
once  in  his  home." 

"  And  balk  me  of  the  last  hope  of  carrying  out  the  revenge 
for  which  alone  I  did  the  deed.  Was  it  the  paltry  money, 
boy,  for  which  I  hazarded  ruin  ?  Would  the  miserahle  thou- 
Banda  have  tempted  me  ?  If  they  had  been  multiplied  ten, 
twenty,  a  hundred,  a  thousand-f(jld,  I  would  have  scorned 
them  all  rather  than  lose  my  revenge." 


440  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  Crod  also  can  revenge,"  replied  Ronald,  faintly.  "  And 
you  are  safe;  he  says  himself  there  is  no  legal  proof." 

"  If  tlicre  had  been  would  I  have  ventured  inyself  within 
his  grasp  ?  No ;  he  has  chosen  his  course,  let  him  follow  it 
out." 

"  To-night  will  go  agiiinst  him,"  said  Ronald. 

"  Of  course  ;  I  know  it.  I  should  never  liave  troubled  my- 
self with  the  boy  if  I  had  not  known  it.  lie  may  thank  his 
stars  that  it  is  no  worse, — that  the  young  scapegrace  is  not 
now  in  the  hands  of  the  magistrates.  Let  liim  make  his  way 
with  the  General  as  he  can,  with  only  his  bare  words  to  for- 
tify him,  and  Clement's  folly  to  stand  against  him." 

"  Mercy  !  Father  !  His  life  has  been  most  miserable." 

"  He  had  no  mei'cy  on  me,"  was  the  bitter  reply. 

Captain  Vivian  was  about  to  rise,  and  again  summon 
^lark,  but  Ronald's  feeble  hand  rested  on  his  arm. 

"  Father !  if  the  gurgling  waters  were  closing  round  you, 
as  they  closed  over  that  wretched  man,  would  you  not  wish 
that  you  had  done  it  ?" 

"  I  could  never  wish  that  I  had  disgraced  myself." 

"  The  disgrace  was  when  the  deed  was  done.  (Jod  help  uh 
to  bear  it." 

"  We  will  not  bear  it,"  exclaimed  Captain  Vivian.  "  We 
will  be  off.   W^e  will  set  up  oiir  fortunes  in  another  place." 

"  The  future  is  with  God,"  said  Ronald.  '^  May  it  please 
Him  to  spare  me  that  sorrow." 

"  What !  would  you  forsake  me  ?" 

"  I  would  die,  if  it  be  God's  will,  for  life  without  honour 
is  very  terrible." 

"  Mad  boy !  yet  you  wish  me  to  disgrace  myself." 

"  Because  what  you  call  disgrace  is  to  me  the  only  road  to 
honor.  Father,  grant  my  reriuest,  and,  if  God  should  spare 
me,  I  will  follow  you,  labor  with  you,  slave  with  you,  die  with 
you, — so  that  the  path  you  take  is  one  in  which  there  is  no 
sin.  Refuse  me,  and  there  is  another  duty  before  me.  The 
debt  to  General  Vivian  shall  be  repaid,  and  by  my  hands.  I 
will  travel  the  world  over,  but  I  will  work  ;  I  will  toil,  if  ne- 
cessary, with  the  poorest ;  I  will  live  the  life  of  an  anchorite, 
and  die  the  death  of  an  outcast ;  rather  than  he  shall  be  de- 
frauded of  one  penny  of  that  which  is  his  just  due.  We  part 
to-night  for  ever  !" 

The  words  might  have  seemed  prophetic,  for  Ronald  sank 


CLEVE    HALL.  441 

back  exhausted  witli  his  own  energy,  and  pale  and  motionless 
as  in  death. 

"  Ronald,  my  boy,  speak  to  me,  only  one  word."  Captain 
Vivian  bent  over  him  in  agony.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  at 
that  moment  Mark  re-entered  the  cave. 

"  Quick,  Captain,  one  way  or  t'other.  They  are  coming 
from  the  cliiF.  The  strange  gentleman,  and  the  surgeon,  and 
Mr.  Lester.  If  you've  any  reason  for  wishing  to  be  off,  you'd 
best  be  quick." 

Capt^iiu  Vivian  looked  at  Ronald.  ''  We'll  take  him 
with  us." 

"  Can't  be.  He's  too  far  gone.  We  may  come  for  him 
to-morrow.  They'll  take  care  of  him  to-night ;  but  you  must 
be  quick,"  and  Mark  went  out  again  to  watch. 

"  Father !"  Ronald  held  Captain  Vivian's  hand ;  his 
glassy  eyes  rested  on  him  long  and  steadily. 

The  hand  was  withdrawn,  and  with  the  other  Captain  Vi- 
vian roughly  dashed  away  a  tear. 

"  If  I  die,  still  think  of  me." 

''  Think  of  you  !  Ronald,  Ronald !  forgive  what  I  have 
done  to  you." 

"  Not  mine,  God's  forgiveness.  Oh !  if  the  truth  were 
told.  It  might  be  written,  even  now,  before  you  go.  Then  I 
should  be  at  peace." 

"  There  is  no  forgiveness  for  such  as  I,  Ronald." 

''  Yes,  Father,  yes ;  one  act ;  it  may  be  the  entrance  on 
the  right  way.  God  grant  vis  to  meet  at  the  end."  lie  spoke 
very  feebly. 

Captain  Vivian  pondered.  '■'■  If  it  is  done,  I  go  disgraced 
by  my  own  word,  never  to  be  heard  of  again  in  England." 

Ronald  raised  his  hand  to  his  head :  "  My  eyes  are  dizzy; 
I  can't  see  you.     Will  you  do  it  ?     Will  you  write  ?" 

Captain  Vivian  took  a  card  from  his  pocket,  wrote  a  few 
words  upon  the  back,  and  put  it  into  Ronald's  hands.  "  It  is 
done,"  he  said ;   "  your  father  is  a  lost  man." 

"  Saved  !  Saved  !"  exclaimed  Ronald,  and  he  fell  back  and 
fainted. 


442  CLEVE   HALL. 


CHAPTER  L. 

n^IIAT  bad  been  a  long  and  intensely  tryinj;'  day  to  Mildred 
jL  Vivian.  When  Bcrtba  left  ber  sbe  bad  sjjent  several 
hours  witb  ber  fatbcr,  vainly  endeavoring  to  persuade  bini  to 
dismiss  the  tbougbt  of  tbe  lost  paper,  until  IMr.  Lester  could 
appear  bimself,  to  account  for  it.  But  General  Vivian  was 
not  easily  to  be  persuaded  in  any  matter,  least  of  all  in  tbe 
control  of  bis  own  mind,  wben  be  was  toucbed  upon  one  of 
tbe  teudercst  points  of  bonor. 

His  keen  sense  of  justice  was  connected  witb  tbe  strong 
feeling  of  personal  claim  to  bis  property,  and  tbis  bad  aggra- 
vated bis  indignation,  wben  bis  son's  supposed  misdeed  was 
first  brought  before  him.  But  tbe  offence  bad  been  punished, 
as  be  said  to  himself,  rightfully,  and  then  he  felt  at  liberty  to 
bury  it  from  all  knowledge  but  his  own. 

That  Mr.  Lester,  Mildred,  above  all.  Bertha,  should  bo 
acquainted  with  it,  wounded  him  almost  beyond  endurance, 
and  the  mind  which  bad  so  long  allowed  itself  to  be  warped 
by  a  one-sided  justice,  was  no  longer  proof  against  the  preju- 
dice which  in  any  other  case  be  would  have  despised. 

He  spoke  to  Mildred  of  plots  and  conspiracies;  be  ques- 
tioned ber  as  to  the  stranger  whom  Mrs.  llobinson  bad  received 
at  tbe  farm,  and  who  she  imagined  might  return.  He  would 
allow  of  no  evasion,  and  drew  from  her  at  length,  tbe  confes- 
sion that  Edward  was  expected — that  be  might  be  at  Encombe 
that  very  night.  He  was  satisfied  then  so  far  that  be  asked 
no  more  questions  ;  but  it  was  evident  that  his  mind  had  taken 
a  wrong  turn,  and  that  tbe  step  his  son  had  made  in  coming 
back  to  England,  uusummoned,  was  likely  to  prove  a  stumb- 
ling-block, rather  than  an  assistance,  in  tbe  way  of  his  resto- 
ration to  favor. 

Mildred  was  very  gentle  and  patient,  but  sbe  could  not 
help  being  sad,  and  this  irritated  the  General.  It  was  a  ro^- 
proach  to  him.  He  said  at  last  that  be  would  be  left  alone, 
and  wben  Ella  offered  to  read  to  him  as  usual,  he  refused; 
and  then  Mildred  went  back  to  her  own  room,  to  bear  as  best 
sbe  might  the  burden  which  had  fallen  upon  ber. 

Night  drew  on,  and  still  the  General  did  not  send  for  her. 
She  tried  to  work,  and  made  Ella  read  aloud,  but  it  was  im- 
possible to   attend.     She  was  thinking  of  ber  brother,  and 


CLEVE    HALL.  443 

longing  for  news  of  Clement.  Greaves  was  on  the  watch,  and 
came  in  every  now  and  then  to  tell  her  anything  he  had  heard, 
but  it  was  all  unsatisfactory.  The  smugglers  were  certain  to 
hind;  they  had  a  traitor  amongst  them,  supposed  to  be  Mrs. 
llobinson's  farm  boy,  Joe  Styles,  and  he,  it  was  said,  had  given 
warning  to  the  preventive  men  who  were  on  the  watch.  No 
doubt  if  they  did  land  there  would  be  a  desperate  struggle. 

Then  came  a  report  from  the  gamekeepers.  Mr.  Lester 
'and  his  friend  had  arrived ;  they  had  walked  over  the  cliffs 
from  Cleve  to  Encombe,  and  had  gone  straight  to  Ilardman's, 
and  from  thence  to  the  shore.  Somebody  declared  that  jMiss 
Campbell  and  31iss  Lester  had  been  very  much  frightened  by 
a  smuggler  on  their  way  home,  but  it  was  thought  that  could 
not  be  true,  because  the  smugglers  were  proverbially  civil  to 
ladies. 

Eight  o'clock  came,  and  tea  was  brought.  Mildred  sent  a 
message  to  know  if  they  might  have  it  with  the  General,  in 
his  room;  but  the  answer  was  brought  —  No,  the  General 
would  drink  tea  alone ;  Miss  Ella  might  go  to  him  afterwards. 
That  was  a  little  comfoi't,  and  when  Ella  was  gone,  Mildred 
lay  quietly  on  the  sofa,  feeling  it  a  relief  to  be  as  anxious  as 
she  pleased,  without  the  fear  of  dispiriting  Ella. 

Nine  o'clock  !  Ella  came  down,  and  said,  grandpapa  was 
tired.  Greaves  was  to  go  to  him  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
'He  would  not  have  Mildred  see  him  again,  because  it  was  such 
a  trouble  to  her,  but  he  sent  his  love,  and  begged  she  would 
take  care  he  had  his  sleeping-draught. 

'<  Ring  the  bell,  Ella,  and  I  will  ask  about  it,"  said  Mil- 
dred.    The  bell  was  rung,  but  not  answered  directly. 

'^  Ring  again,  my  love,  I  can't  think  what  the  servants  arc 
doing." 

They  waited  still  some  time. 

"  Just  open  the  door  a  little,  Ella;  I  am  sure  I  hoar  a  good 
deal  of  talking." 

Greaves  was  trying  to  silence  some  one  who  was  speaking, 
and  he  came  himself  to  answer  the  bell. 

**The  General  will  want  you,  Greaves,  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour;  he  is  going  to  bed.  I  rang  to  remind  you  of  his  sleep- 
incr-draught." 

"  Yes,  Ma'am."     Greaves  looked  at  Ella,  doubtfully. 

"  Go  again,  to  grandpapa,  Ella;  tell  him  Greaves  will  bring 
him  his  draught  directly.  I  send  him  my  very  best  love,  and 
trust  he  will  have  a  good  night.     Greaves/' — and    Mildred 


444  CLEVE    HALL. 

turned  to  the  butler  almost  before  Ellii  was  out  of  tbe  room,— 
"you  have  news." 

"  Not  much,  Ma'am ;  that  is, — pray  don't  be  frii;htencd, 
Miss  Mildred  ;  it's  better  than  could  have  been  thought.  ]Mas- 
ter  Clement  is  safe." 

"  Thank  God  !  but  he  iimst  have  been  with  the  smuuj;lers  " 

''  He  was  with  them  and  landed  with  them,"  rej)lied  Greaves, 
rathei  sternly ;  "  and  the  preventives  were  down  upou  them, 
and  there  was  a  skirmish ;  more  than  an  hour  ago  that  was.* 
]]ut  Master  Clement  got  away,  I  am  told.  Some  say  Mr.  Bruce, 
that  came  with  Mr.  Lester,  this  evening,  helped  him ;  others, 
that  it  was  the  Captain's  son ;  but  any  how,  he  got  free,  and 
Mr.  Lester  went  home  with  him.  One  of  the  smugglers  was 
taken,  and " 

"Well?  what?" 

"  It's  an  ugly  story,  the  rest.  Ma'am.  I  can't  say  how 
much  is  true.  But  that  wretched  fellow,  Gofi",  is  put  out  of 
the  way." 

"  Killed  ?  By  the  preventive  men  ?  How  horrible  !"  and 
Mildred  turned  very  pale. 

"  Worse  than  that,  if  the  tale's  true.  Ilardman,  who  was 
watching  about  the  cliffs  with  Mr.  Lester,  says  that  he  had  kept 
liimself  hid  when  the  skirmish  began,  and  just  at  the  end  fired 
deliberately  at  iMr.  Bruce." 

Mildred  uttered  a  scream  of  horror. 

Greaves  paused  for  a  moment:  "The  General's  waiting. 
Ma'am,  I  must  not  be  long." 

"  But  Mr.  Bruce— Mr.^Bruce  !"  faintly  ejaculated  Mildred. 

"  He  escaped.  Ma'am ;  which  was  all  very  well ;  though, 
being  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  one  doesn't  seem  to  care  so 
much  about  him.  But  the  poor  young  gentleman  at  the  Grange 
has  been  moi'tally  wounded,  and  there's  many  a  sad  heart  for 
him.  The  preventives  were  after  Goff  in  a  moment,  and,  try- 
ing to  escape,  he  was  drowned." 

Even  in  his  haste  to  go  to  the  General,  Greaves  watched 
Mildred's  countenance  narrowly ;  but  she  exercised  immense 
self-control,  and,  uttering  inwardly  her  thankfulness  for  her 
brother's  safety,  only  said  aloud  :  "  Oh  !  Greaves,  how  terrible  ! 
So  desperate — so  unprepared.  And  the  poor  boy — what  have 
they  done  with  him  ?" 

"Carried  him  off  to  Mark  Wood's  cottage  in  the  Gorge; 
so  I'm  told,  Ma'am  ;  though  I  can  scarce  believe  it,  with  the 
Grange  so  near  at  hand.     But  they  say,  too,  that  he  insisted 


CLEVE    nALL.  445 

upon  it,  and  that  the  Captain  is  off  somewhere.  People  think 
there  must  be  something  more  in  it  than  a  mere  smuggling 
fray  ;  and  why  that  fellow  GofF  should  have  had  a  spite  against 
Mr.  Bruce  no  one  can  say." 

"  Yes,  very  strange ;  very  strange,  indeed!"  but  Mildred 
spoke  wanderingly.  "  Was  that  the  Hall  bell  ?"  She  raised 
herself  up,  and  listened. 

Greaves  listened  too.  "  I  think  so,  Ma'am ;  I  will  see/'  and 
he  left  the  room. 

Mildred's  heart  beat  with  painful  rapidity;  everything 
seemed  to  swim  before  her ;  her  eyes  were  dim,  and  her  knees 
trembled.  She  tried  to  hearken,  but  could  catch  no  sound. 
The  rush  of  roaring  waves,  the  noise  of  tumultuous  voices,  the 
phantom  sounds  of  an  excited  imagination,  were  filling  her 
ears  with  their  ghostly  echoes ;  and  the  undertone  of  vc'ces 
approaching,  with  the  tread  of  footsteps  across  the  stone  hall 
and  along  the  corridor,  mingled  with  her  fancies,  so  that  she 
could  scarcely  distinguish  their  reality. 

Yet  the  door  opened,  and  two  persons  entered,  Mr.  Lester 
first,  and  Mildred's  exclamation  of  pleasure  was  changed  into 
a  sharp  C17  of  almost  terrified  delight,  as  the  next  moment  her 
brother  knelt  by  her  side. 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck ;  her  tears  fell  fast  and 
long.  When  she  did  speak  it  was  to  say,  "  I  have  prayed  for 
this,  and  God  has  heard  me  !" 

Mr.  Lester  looked  round  and  closed  the  door.  "  I  sent 
Greaves  away,  but  he  may  come  back.  Remember,  you  are 
still  to  be  careful," 

"  Not  after  to-morrow,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vivian.  "  All 
must  be  decided  then." 

<'  So  soon  ! — My  father  must  be  prepared.  Oh  !  Edward, 
you  little  know  what  you  have  to  contend  with.  And  it  seems 
— if  I  could  but  keep  you  here  with  me  as  you  are," — and 
again  she  clung  to  him  as  though  fearing  he  would  escape 
fivini  her  grasp. 

"It  is  useless  to  delay,"  replied  Mr.  Lester;  ''and  we 
have  arguments,  iMildred,  which  may  work  a  great  change  in 
General  Vivian's  feelings.  You  are  ignorant  of  the  charge 
bionght  against  your  bnjthor,  and  therefore  you  cannot  hope, 
a.s  we  do,  that  it  may  be  refuted." 

"  I  do  know  it,"  said  Miklred;  and  turning  to  iMr.  Vivian, 
with  a  look  of  sad,  yet  tender  reproach,  she  added  :  "  When 
1  learnt  the   truth,  1  judged  my  father  more  reverently  and 


44 G  CLEVE   HALL. 

cliavitaldy.  Ho  was  wounded  in  tlie  point  on  whirli  his  focL 
ings  are  the  most  sensitive." 

"  Not  by  nic  !"  and  Mr.  Vivian  started  to  his  feet.  "  As 
there  is  trutlx  in  heaven,  IMihh-cd,  it  was  a  forgery;  a  base, 
miserable  forgery  !" 

"  The  paper  ! — the  handwriting  !     Is  it  passible  ?" 

"  It  was  not  mine.  I  would  have  died  rather  than  do  such 
a  deed.  John  Vivian  is  responsible  for  it.  I  have  heard  the 
acknowledgment  from  his  own  lips." 

"  Oh,  Edward  !  God  indeed  be  thanked  !"  She  sat  silent 
for  some  seconds,  then  turned  to  Mr.  Lester :  "  I  can't  under- 
stand. The  paper — did  my  father  know  about  it  ? — did  he 
give  it  to  you?     He  says  that  he  has  forgotten  it." 

"  There  is  a  mystery  about  that,"  replied  Mr.'  Lester. 
"  jMiss  Campbell  says  it  was  found  in  my  pocket-book.  I  had 
not  the  most  remote  idea  that  it  was  in  my  possession.  Yet  I 
can  so  far  account  for  it,  that  on  the  day  when  I  was  here, 
talking  with  General  Vivian  about  Clement,  a  box  of  papers 
was  upset,  and  several  were  scattered.  I  picked  up  all,  and 
restored  them,  as  I  thought ;  but  this  I  must  have  carried  off 
accidentally.  Miss- Campbell  says  she  recollects  seeing  it  drop 
out  with  my  handkerchief,  when  she  was  conversing  with  me 
the  same  evening,  and  that  I  took  it  vip,  without  looking  at  it, 
and  put  it  in  my  pocket-book.  Of  course  she  did  not  know 
then  what  it  was." 

"  And  you  have  it,  and  will  return  it,  and  it  will  all  be 
proved." 

"Ah!  Mildred,  no,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vivian;  ''that  is  a 
sore  point ;  it  is  gone.  Almost  the  last  act  of  that  wretched 
man  Goff,  who  has  to-night  been  summoned  to  his  dread  ac- 
count, was  to  take  it  from  Miss  Campbell  by  force,  and  to 
destroy  it." 

Mildred  sank  back  on  the  sofa. 

"  I  have  nothing  but  my  word  to  support  me,"  continued 
Mr.  Vivian.  "  That,  and  Bertha  Campbell's  evidence  that 
the  paper  was  taken  from  her.  Yet  what  need  is  there  of 
more  ?"     And  he  drew  himself  up  proudly. 

''  He  does  not  know  my  father."  Mildred  spoke  despoiid- 
ingly  to  Mr.  Lester. 

"  I  hope  he  does.  I  can't  imagine  General  Vivian's  doubt- 
ing hiin." 

"  Doubt  me  !"  Mr.  Vivian  withdrew  the  hand  which  had 
been  clasped  in  Mildred's,  and  strode  up  and  down  the  apart- 


CLEVE   HALL.  447 

meat  rapidly:  "Let  liim  breathe  but  the  thoiia;ht,  and  I  will 
go  back  to  Jamaica — to  India — I  care  not  where.  Doubt  mci* 
— doubt  his  son  ? — a  Vivian  !" 

"  Edward  !  dearest,  he  is  old  ;  his  mind  has  lost  its  elasti- 
city, and  it  has  been  warped  by  sorrow." 

"  Yes,  through  me, — my  faults.  Oh  !  jMildred,  Mildred, 
help  me  to  be  patient !" 

"God  will  help  us  all,"  replied  Mildred;  "only  let  us 
trust  Him.  My  father  may  believe,  yet  he  may  insist  upon 
proof.     Is  there  no  other  to  be  brought  forward  ?" 

"  None,  at  least  forthcoming  at  pi-esent.  John  Vivian  is 
beyond  our  reach ;  if  he  were  not,  I  scarce./  see  how  we  could 
substantiate  our  charge." 

"  And  Clement's  conduct  will  work  against  you,"  continued 
Mildred.      "  He  must,  perhaps  he  ought,  to  hear  of  it." 

"To  condemn  me  for  my  boy's  follies  !  Mildred,  is  that 
justice  ?" 

"  It  may  be  his  justice,"  replied  Mildred ;  and  a  long  pause 
followed. 

Mr.  Vivian  broke  it :  "  It  matters  not,  Mildred ;  delay 
cannot  help  us.  If  it  would,  I  could  not  bear  it.  Even  now, 
the  suspense  of  my  position  is  often  almost  maddening.  Let 
my  father  reject, — let  him  even  doubt  my  word,  if  he  will ; 
the  honor  of  a  Vivian  rests  not  on  words,  but  on  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  inmost  heart.  One  thing  at  least  he  cannot  take 
from  me, — the  comfort  of  having  cleared  myself  in  your  dear 
eyes;  of  having  seen  you, — talked  with  j^ou, — looked  again 
upon  the  okl  familiar  walls.  Home  !  my  childhood's  home  !" 
and  his  eye  wandered  round  the  well-known  apartment !  "  Docs 
my  father  know  what  home  is  ?" 

"  Too  well  !  dearest  Edward.  If  he  had  cared  for  it  less, 
he  might  have  been  less  severe  in  his  endeavor  to  vi])hold  it." 

"  Rejected  again  !  Dishonored  !  doubted  !"  murmured  Mr. 
Vivian.  "  Yet  I  have  loved  and  reverenced  him,  oh  !  so 
deeply.  Mildred,  he  must  sec  me;  he  must  give  nic  his 
blessing.     I  cannot  die  in  peace  without  it." 

"  Hope,  Edward.  I  have  lived  upon  it  for  many  years.  It 
may  seem  impossible,"  she  added,  speaking  to  ^Ir.  Lester,  "to 
reject  such  evidence;  yet  no  one  can  calculate  upon  the  turn 
his  feelings  may  take." 

"  He  will  not  reject  it,"  replied  Mr.  Lester.  _"  I  have  no 
fear  upon  that  point;  it  would  be  an  insult  to  his  feelings  as 
a  gentleman.  .  I  have  but  one  misgiving,  that  (he  old  preju- 


448  CLEVE   HALL. 

dice  ma}'  still  lin<::er  so  as  to  bias  his  mind,  and  that  tho  ab- 
pence  of  proof  will,  Avithout  his  bein^  aware  of  it,  rankle  in 
his  breast.  1  believe  he  will  fi;rant  John  Vivian's  offence,  and 
yet  I  do  not  say  that  lie  will  forgive  your  brother,  so  as  to 
restore  him  to  his  inheritance." 

"  Then  be  it  so,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vivian.  "  Let  the  paltry 
acres  goj  it  was  not  for  them  that  I  grieved  when  he  disin- 
herited me,  and  it  is  not  for  them  that  I  have  sought  him 
now.  Let  him  acknowledge  that  I  am  not  the  base  wretch  he 
thought  me,  and  admit  me  to  intercourse  with  my  home,  and 
I  will  be  content.  The  labor  of  my  own  intellect  shall,  thnmgh 
God's  aid,  support  me  for  the  future,  as  it  has  supported  me 
during  the  past,  and  when  I  die  I  shall  have  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  not  even  to  my  father  was  I  indebted  for  my 
own  prosperity,  or  that  of  my  children." 

''  Proud,  dearest  Edward,  still,"  said  Mildred,  gently. 

"  Ob  !  Mildred,  does  not  this  unjust  world  make  one  so  ?" 

"  Yes,"  and  Mildred  sighed;   "  it  is  one's  struggle." 

"  To  bear  punishment,  and  own  it  to  be  punishment,  Mil- 
dred, that  is  what  I  find  so  hard.  Yet  I  have  had  many  years 
in  which  to  learn  the  lesson." 

"  And  many  things  to  teach  it  you.  I  must  hear  all  be- 
fore long." 

"  Not  till  you  have  told  me  all.  One  r[uestion  I  must  ask 
now."  His  voice  became  tremulous,  and  sank,  and  Mr.  Les- 
ter withdrew  himself,  and  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the 
apartment.  "  Mildred,  did  Edith  think  of  me  as  my  father 
did?" 

"  Not  as  he  did.  He  would  not  tell  her  what  he  thought 
the  truth." 

"  But  she  suspected  me  ?" 

"  She  feared,  and  the  fear " 

"  Killed  her;  I  knew  it.     God  forgive  and  aid  me." 

"  She  had  been  ill  and  anxious  before,"  continued  Mildred; 
"  the  shock  was  very  great,  but  it  might  only  have  aggravated, 
not  caused  the  evil.  She  had  a  brain  fever  at  the  time,  but 
she  rallied  from  it,  and  lived  many  months  afterwards." 

"  And  did  she  speak  of  me  ?    Did  you  talk  together  ?" 

"  Alas  !  no,  that  was  my  grief;  but  it  was  all  pent  up  ;  it 
vrorked  inwardly.  It  was  very  strange,  she  who  had  been  so 
unreserved  before." 

"John  Vivian's  doing,"  he  murmured.     "Can  it  be  pqs- 


CLEVE    HALL.  449 

siblo  to  forgive?  And  all  that  time  slic  considered  uie  a 
wretch,  Mildred;  lost, — sunk." 

"  Forget  it  now,  Edward.  If  the  dead  know  the  secrets 
of  the  living,  she  has  long  since  learnt  that  you  were  inno- 
cent. If  not,  the  day  will  come  when  she  must  know  it.  It 
was  God  who  appointed  her  trial  and  ours." 

^'  She  thought  me  guilty,"  he  continued;  ''and  I  was  so, 
though  not  as  she  believed.  Oh  !  Mildred,  the  indescribable 
wretchedness  of  that  time  I — but  for  my  wife,  I  must  have 
been  overwhelmed  by  it." 

"  And  the  years  of  misery  that  have  followed  !"  continued 
Mildred ;  "  when  my  father  thinks  of  them,  he  must  yield." 

''  You  remember,  Mildred,  it  must  be  to  justice,  not  com- 
passion. He  did  me  wrong  unknowingly;  when  he  is  con- 
vinced of  his  error,  he  must  do  me  right  freely.  I  can  accept 
nothing  but  pardon  for  the  ofience  I  did  commit — restitution 
for  the  sufferings  borne  for  those  which  I  did  not  commit." 

"  You  are  like  him,"  said  Mildred,  smiling  sadly. 

"  Then  there  is  the  more  hope  that  we  may  understand  each 
other.  For  my  own  reputation's  sake, — my  character  in  the 
sight  of  the  world, — I  must  demand  a  full  acknowledgment 
that  I  have  been  wronged." 

"And  for  his  own  "reputation's  sake, — his  character  in  the 
sight  of  the  world, — he  will  demand  a  full  proof  that  ho  has 
wronged  you." 

Mr.  Vivian  was  silent  and  very  thoughtful. 

The  remembrance  of  Bertha's  refusal  to  deliver  up  the 
paper  crossed  Mildred's  mind,  but  she  would  not  speak  of  it; 
her  brother's  countenance  showed  feelings  which  needed  no 
aggravation. 

Mr.  Lester  came  iip  to  them  :  "We  must  go  now,  Vivian  : 
remember  we  have  business  on  our  hands,  and  explanatioia  to 
be  made  to  the  preventive  men, — possibly  to  the  magistrates 
also,  if  we  wish  to  prevent  inquiry  as  to  Clement's  share  and 
llonald's,  and  your  own,  in  this  unhappy  affair;  and  to-)iiorruw 
early  I  have  promised  to  be  at  the  Gorge." 

"  To  see  llonald  V  inquired  31ildred.  "  Is  it  not  a  mise- 
rable place  for  him  i"' 

"  N(jt  miserable,  but  very  uncomfortable.  lie  insisted  upon 
being  taken  there,  as  well  as  he  could  insist  upon  anything, 
fio  utterly  exhausted  as  he  was.  He  dreaded  the  Grange  evi- 
dently." 

"  He  will  have  no  one  to  take  care  of  him  or  nurse  him." 


ioO  CLEVE    HALL. 

"  I  said  so.  I  urged  Mark  to  cany  him  to  the  Ilectory, 
Diit  his  agony  of  distress  at  tlie  idea  was  so  great  that  we  were 
forced  to  give  way.  The  old  woman  who  has  the  charge  of  Jour- 
ney is  a  tolerable  nurse,  and  Mark  has  given  him  up  his  own 
bed,  and  is  ott'  himself  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  observation. 
Vivian  and  I  went  with  Ronald,  and  saw  that  he  was  in  no 
want  of  anything  for  the  present ;  and  so  we  must  leave  it. 
To-morrow  he  may  rally, — and  then  we  may  bring  him  to 
reason." 

"  You  don't  speak  very  anxiously,"  said  Mildred. 

"  The  medical  opinion  is  favorable.  A  good  deal  of  the 
exhaustion  we  found  proceeded  from  his  having  eaten  nothing 
for  many  hours.     But  I  don't  venture  to  say  he  will  recover." 

Mr.  Vivian  had  been  standing  by  them  in  silence,  lie 
bent  over  his  sister  and  kissed  her:  ''My  doing!  Mildred; 
the  curse  falls  on  all  connected  with  me." 

"  Dearest  Edward  ! — the  curse  is  taken  away  when  thei'c  is 
repentance." 

"  Not  in  this  world,  as  regards  temporal  suffering,"  he 
replied. 

"  Save  that  the  suffering  may  be  converted  into  blessing," 
observed  Mr.  Lester.  "  And  for  Ronald,  sorrow  would  be 
idle  :  should  he  live,  he  will  live  to  redeem  his  name ;  should 
he  die,  who  can  doubt  that  mercy  is  in  store  for  him  ?" 


CHAPTER  LI. 

"ri^riE  General  has  had  another  attack  of  faintiiess,  Sir, 
_L    Miss  Vivian  is  with  him." 

That  was  the  information  which  greeted  Mr.  Lester  when 
he  appeared  at  the  ILall  the  following  morning.  Grpaves 
looked  uneasy,  and  spoke  anxiously,  but  said  that  Dr.  Lawes 
assured  them  there  was  nothing  to  be  alarmed  at. 

The  intelligence  was  seconded  by  a  note  from  Mildred, 
wiitten  in  pencil :  "  We  must  be  patient.  It  is  worry  of 
mind.     Nothing  can  be  said  to  him  yet." 

Patience  was  comparatively  easy  now — at  least,  for  INIr 
"N'ivian.  He  had  taken  up  his  abode  at  the  Farm  in  prefer 
ence  to  the  Rectory;  and  thither  Ella  was  sent  to  make  what 


CLEYE   HALL.  451 

miolit  be  called  lior  first  acquaintance  with  her  father.  Louisa 
and  Fanny  also  were  with  him ;.  whilst  Bertha  was  preparing 
Mrs.  Campbell's  mind  for  his  return.  Only  Clement  was 
absent. 

Mr.  Vivian's  was  one  of  those  easily  depressed,  easily  ex- 
cited minds,  which  seem  never  entirely  to  lose  their  elasticity; 
and  now  that  personal  danger  was  at  an  end,  and  he  was 
restored  to  the  free  companionship  of  his  family,  he  would 
scarcely  allow  the  happiness  of  the  present  moment  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  any  fears  for  the  future.  He  was  charmed  with 
Ella's  talents,  Louisa's  sense,  and  little  Fanny's  beauty,  and 
turned  from  any  remembrance  of  Clement's  misconduct ;  till 
it  was  forced  upon  him  at  last,  when  Mr.  Lester  came  and  it 
was  necessai-y  to  make  inquiry  into  all  that  had  taken  place. 

Clement's  story  was  short  but  full  of  -framing,  lie  had 
not  offended  to  the  full  extent  intentionally — that  was  his 
excuse ;  and  yet  every  word  he  spoke  showed  that  most  fatal 
of  all  intentions,  the  determination  to  follow  a  weak  self-will. 

To  do  him  justice,  he  did  not  for  a  moment  endeavor  to 
evade  blame  by  equivocation.  The  first  most  marked  and 
wilful  wandering  from  the  right  path  had  been  the  conceal- 
ment of  his  visit  to  the  Grange.  Had  it  been  confessed,  Mr. 
Lester's  strict  injunctions  would  have  supported  his  weakness, 
and  probably  enabled  him  to  withstand  further  temptations. 
But  once  on  the  downward  path,  and  the  impetus  of  evil 
carried  him  easily  forward.  His  vanity  had  been  excited  by 
Vie  praises  bestowed  upon  his  quickness  in  figures ;  and  under 
the  pretence  of  being  further  useful  to  Captain  Vivian,  he  had 
for  the  fourth  time  been  enticed  by  him  to  the  Grange,  as  he 
was  returning  from  the  hills.  Clement  knew  he  was  doing 
wrong — he  quite  confessed  it;  but  Captain  Vivian,  he  said, 
was  pressing.  In  the  course  of  conversation  it  was  suggested 
to  him  that  Captain  Vivian's  vessel  was  at  Encombe,  and  up(in 
tlie  point  of  making  a  short  sail  of  about  an  hour  round  I)y 
(.'leve;  if  he  would  only  go  on  board,  he  was  to  have  a  good 
lessen  in  seamanship,  and  might  return  almost  before  he  was 
missed. 

The  offer,  accompanied  by  flattering  prophecies  that  he 
would  make  a  first-rate  sailor,  was  too  tempting  to  be  refused. 
And  Clement  went  with  Captain  Vivian  to  the  cliff;  and  then 
finding  it  growing  dusk,  wished  to  return.  But  he  was 
laughed  at,  as  being  inclined  to  sneak  out  of  an  adventure,  and 
told  that  the  moon  would  be  uj)  directly;  and  so  having,  as  he 


452  CLEVE   HALL. 

fancied,  no  f;-ootl  excuse,  he  went.  Captain  Vivian  lie  tlunmht 
meant  to  accompany  liim,  but  at  the  last  mouient  he  put  hiui 
in  chariTc  (if  Mark  Wood. 

From  that  time  Clement's  existence  had  been  one  almost 
of  terror.  The  vessel  sailed  in  the  direction  of  the  opposite 
coast;  and  he  found  himself  in  the  hands  of  men  whu  woidd 
neither  listen  to  him  nor  explain  their  intentions.  'J'hey 
treated  liim  civilly,  but  were  deaf  to  his  remonstrances — except 
that  Mark  Wood  assured  him,  from  time  to  time,  that  no 
j)ersonal  injury  was  intended  him. 

If  he  had  erred  f>;reatly,  the  agony  of  mind  of  that  one 
night  had  been  a  punishment  in  which  seemed  condensed  the 
lesson  of  a  life.  Of  what  went  on  in  the  vessel  Clement  was 
very  ignorant.  They  had  met  and  spoken  with  another  vessel, 
and  he  imagined  had  received  contraband  goods  on  board;  but 
he  was  kept  close  in  the  cabin,  and,  indeed,  was  too  ill  a  great 
part  of  the  time  to  enter  into  anything  but  his  own  sufferings. 

Mark  Wood  waited  upon  him,  and  told  him  when  they 
were  about  to  return ;  but  as  they  neared  the  shore  Mark  left 
him,  and  another  man,  Hale,  took  charge  of  him.  He  felt 
himself  then  a  prisoner;  and  from  the  casual  observations 
which  were  dropped  before  him,  understood  the  nature  of  the 
expedition  in  which  the  men  were  engaged,  and  resolved  at 
all  hazards  to  leave  them  as  soon  as  they  touched  the  land. 
But  this  he  soon  found  to  be  impossible.  Hale  kept  close 
to  him,  and  had  even  threatened  to  shoot  him  if  he  attempted 
to  escape.  The  result  Mr.  Lester  and  his  father  already 
knew. 

It  was  all  told  concisely  and  abruptly,  drawn  from  him  in 
a  great  measure  by  questions ;  and  when  at  last  the  history  was 
ended,  Clement  stood  humbled  and  silent,  not  even  venturing 
to  ask  for  forgiveness.  His  father  pitied  him — perhaps  there 
Avere  too  many  and  too  keen  recollections  of  his  own  follies  to 
condemn  him.  Mr.  Lester  pitied  him  also,  yet  his  manner 
was  coldly  stern.  One  comment  only  he  made  upon  the  facts 
he  had  heard :  "  Absence  of  intention,  Clement,  will  not  save 
us  from  the  consequences  of  our  faults.  There  is  a  straiglit 
and  narrow  path  to  Heaven :  no  one  who  leaves  it  intends  tu 
go  to  Hell." 

"I  have  had  a  lesson  for  life,  Sir;  I  don't  mean  to  forget 
it,"  replied  Clement. 

"  A  lesson  for  Eternity  it  ought  to  be,  Clement.  If  small 
disobediences  will  produce  such  terrible  consequences  on  earth, 


CLEVE    HALL.  458 

we  may  be  quite  certain  that  they  will,  without  repentance, 
produce  a  thousand-fold  more  terrible  consequences  hereafter. 
I  would  say  it  to  you  and  to  Ella  also.  Neither  of  you  have 
as  yet  learnt  what  strict  duty  means ;  and  if  you  do  not  learn 
it  now,  it  will  be  taught  you  by  the  bitter  exjjerience  of  life." 

Clement  turned  to  his  father.  From  him  it  seemed  that 
he  expected  greater  palliation  of  his  faults;  but  Mr.  Vivian 
sat  with  his  foi'ehead  resting  on  his  hands.  Only  once  he 
looked  up  for  a  moment,  aud  said  that  he  should  like  Ella  to 
be  sent  for. 

She  came,  bright,  excited,  full  of  hope  aud  happiness, 
having  only  just  begun  to  realize  that  the  quiet,  strange  JMr, 
Bruce  could  possibly  be  her  own  father.  The  sight  of  Clement, 
and  the  grave  countenances  which  she  saw,  awed  and  subdued 
her.  She  sat  down  by  her  father;  and  he  put  his  arm  round 
her,  and  looked  at  her  tenderly,  but  his  eyes  were  dimmed 
with  tears,  and  he  did  not  speak. 

''  You  have  forgiven  him,  dear  Papa,"  whispered  Ella. 

"  Mr.  Lester  says  he  is  not  the  only  person  to  require  for- 
giveness," replied  her  father,  evasively. 

Ella  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"Am  I  very  strict,  Ella,"  observed  3Ir.  Lester,  "in  saying 
that,  if  your  influence  had  always  been  exerted  on  the  side  of 
obedience,  last  night's  suiferings  might  have  been  spared  us  ?" 

Ella's  color  rose.  She  could  bear  her  Aunt  Mildred's 
gentle  and  sympathizing  reproof,  but  Mr.  Lester's  cold,  severe 
tone  touched  her  pride. 

She  was  not  aware,  she  said,  that  any  influence  of  hers  had 
induced  Clement  to  join  the  smugglers. 

"I  didn't  join  them,  Ella!"  exclaimed  Clement;  "J 
wouldn't  for  the  world  have  been  mixed  up  with  such  a  low 
set.  I  was  taken  off"  against  by  will.  But  I  was  very  wrong," 
he  added,  more  gently. 

Ella  glanced  at  him  in  surpinse. 

"  You  will  think  me  hard,  I  know,  Ella,"  continued  Mr. 
Lester;  "but  I  can  easily  make  you  see  that  I  have  reason  on 
my  side.  Who  encouraged  Clement  to  spend  the  time  that 
i^hould  have  been  devoted  to  study  upon  the  shore,  and  so 
gave  him  desultory  habits  ?" 
Ella  blushed,  and  was  silent. 

"  Who  set  him  the  example  of  disrespect,  disobedience, 
wilfulness,  in  small  every-day  matters;  and  so  led  him  into 
the  same  in  greater  ones  i*     Who  never  would  allow  that  puuc- 


451  CLEVE    HALL. 

tuality  to  liours  was  a  duty;  and  so  made  liiiu  think  it  of  little 
consequence  -whether  he  stayed  with  those  men  or  not?  Who 
ased  to  excite  him  by  talkimr  of  chivalry,  and  adventure,  and 
daring — and  forgot  that  the  noblest  daring  is  that  which  shall 
conquer  self?" 

No  reply ;  but  Ella  leant  her  head  on  her  father's  shoulder, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

Clement  was  nnich  distressed.  "  If  you  wouldn't  be  angry 
with  her,  Sir.  Indeed  it  was  my  own  doing.  1  ought  to  have 
known  better;  and  I  did,  too." 

"Ella  won't  be  angry  with  me  by-and-by,"  said  Mr.  Les- 
ter; ''she  woidd  rather  hear  the  truth." 

"I  am  not  angry,  now," — and  Ella  looked  up,  and  half 
smiled  through  her  tears ; — ''  Aunt  Mildred  has  told  me  all 
before." 

"And  Aunt  Mildred  has  taught  you  to  be  a  very  different 
person  from  what  you  were,  Ella,"  replied  Mr.  Lester,  kindly ; 
"  and  if  there  had  not  been  something  of  a  sense  of  justice 
in  my  mind,  which  made  me  feel  that  you  could  scarcely  be 
exonerated  from  a  share  in  Clement's  faults,  I  doubt  if  I 
should  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  have  :  certainly  I  should  not 
have  chosen  to  do  so  the  first  day  of  your  father's  being  with 

you." 

"  Mr.  Lester  has  lectured  me,  too,  very  often,"  said  Mr. 
Vivian,  kissing  her  fondly.  "  You  know  he  was  my  tutor,  so 
he  was  accustomed  to  it  years  ago.  God  grant  they  may  pro- 
fit by  it  better  than  I  did,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  voice. 

Clement  came  forward  boldly:  "I  am  willing  to  bear  any 
punishment,  Sir,  which  my  father  or  you  may  think  right. 
And  I  would  rather." 

"  You  have  had  your  punishment,  Clement,  from  God;  if 
that  should  fail,  nothing  else  will  have  any  effect." 

"  And  you  won't  trust  me.  Sir,  again  ?" 

"Yes,  you  will;  it  is  impossible  not  to  trust  him,"  ex- 
claimed Ella. 

"  I  trust  him  entirely,  implicitly — as  a  general  trusts  a  pri- 
soner on  his  parole,"  said  Mr.  Vivian,  quickly. 

Mr.  Lester  was  silent. 

Clement  looked  disheartened ;  Ella  inclined  to  be  angry. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you,  Clement,  why  I  scarcely  dare  to  say  I 
trust  you  ?"  replied  Mr.  Lester.  "  Not  only  because  of  that 
one  instance  of  deception,  most  grievous  though  it  was,  for  I 
believe  you  are  heartily  ashamed  of  it;  but  because  your  bo- 


CLEVE    HALL.  455 

setting  sin — almost  more  fatal  to  a  man  than  to  a  woman — is 
vanity." 

Clement  winced  under  the  accusation. 

*'  It  is  very  painful,  I  know,  to  hear  it.  It  is  such  a  weak- 
ness, so  entirely  opposed  to  a  manly  spii'it,  that  we  are  apt  to 
give  it  any  name  rather  than  its  true  one.  You  think  that 
you  like  adventure — deeds  of  enterprise  :  what  you  really  like 
is  admiration  of  any  kind.  Let  it  come  from  your  father,  from 
me,  from  the  fishermen  on  the  shore — it  matters  not  who  or 
what  may  be  the  source — if  you  are  admired  you  are  satisfied. 
There,  Clement,  is  your  snare." 

"  Yes,  Sir,  I  know  it." 

Mr.  Lester's  countenance  brightened  a  little,  and  he  laid 
his  hand  affectionately  on  Clement's  shoulder:  ''Remember 
it  as  well  as  know  it,  and  I  shall  be  satisfied.  Own  that  you 
are  vain ;  repeat  it  to  yourself;  think  of  it ;  watch  against  it; 
pray  most  earnestly  that  you  may  be  saved  from  it,  and  you 
will,  through  God's  mercy,  be  all  that  we  most  earnestly  de- 
sire ;  for  a  man  who  is  fighting  against  vanity  posts  a  sentinel 
upon  eye,  and  ear,  and  tongue,  and  every  imagination  of  the 
heart :  yield,  and  there  is  no  surer  way  to  mar  success  in  this 
world,  or  to  destroy  your  hopes  for  another." 

Clement  stood  silent ;  and  Ella,  longing  to  withdraw  atten- 
tion from  him,  said,  rather  lightly:  "You  won't  tell  me  my 
great  fault,  Mr.  Lester." 

"  Perhaps  I  don't  know  you  as  well  as  I  do  Clement,"  he 
replied,  coldly;  "  besides,  I  have  said  enough  for  one  morning." 

"  But  I  should  like  to  know;  please  tell  me." 

'■'■  Really  ? — can  you  bear  it  ?" 

"  Clement  can  bear  it,  and  so  can  I,  I  hope,"  replied  Ella, 
drawing  herself  up. 

*'  I  could  see  one  great  fault  peeping  out  in  the  way  you 
spoke  just  then,"  replied  Mr.  Lester — "  pride  !" 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  am  proud,"  said  Ella. 

"  But  you  are  not  ashamed  of  it.'^ 

"  It  is  very  wrong,  I  am  quite  aware  of  that." 

"  But  it  doesn't  lower  you,  you  think,  in  the  eyes  of  other's. 
Y'ou  wouldn't  shrink  from  being  called  a  proud  person?" 

"Not  vei-y  njuch" — and  Ella  colored,  though  she  almost 
erailed. 

"No;  and  there  is  the  great  danger  of  piide; — persons 
are  not  a.'^hamed  of  it.  I  h;ivc  known  many  who  rather  pride 
t'lom.'^-elve:-  np:i!i  it.      Hi!!.  I'Jhi,  that  is  nnt  according  to  Cod's 


456  CLEVE    HALL. 

judgment;  and  it  will  be  no  satisfaction  to  us,  when  Heaven 
is  lost,  to  know  that  it  was  through  a  sin  which  we  fancied  was 
a  noble  one." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  thought  it  noble  exactl}',"  obsen'ed 
Ella,  ''only  not  so  silly  as  some  others." 

"  But  even  in  that  you  are  mistaken,"  replied  Mr.  Lester. 
"  Proud  persons  don't  think  they  are  ridiculous,  but  they  are 
so ;  and  many  times,  when  they  imagine  they  have  only  been 
upholding  their  dignity,  they  have  actually  made  themselves 
absurd."' 

Ella  looked  grave  and  uncomfortable,  and  said  that  it  was 
very  difficult  to  know  when  she  was  proud. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  replied  Mr.  Lester.  "  You  think  that 
pride  is  a  family  failing,  and  you  admire  it  for  its  antiquity. 
I  can  trace  it  back  further  than  you  do,  Ella;  it  was  Satan's 
sin  when  he  rebelled  against  God." 

]*'lla  looked  towards  her  father,  to  hide  from  Mr.  Lester  the 
blush  which  crimsoned  her  cheek. 

"  Pride  and  indolence,"  whispered  Mr.  Vivian — "  these  I 
have  always  been  told  were  my  child's  great  faults." 

*' Yes,  papa,  indolence,  I  know;  but  I  never  thought  so 
much  about  pride,  and " 

"  And  what  ?" 

"  It  seems  hard  upon  me." 

''  It  is  just  what  I  used  to  say,  Ella;  ho  was  so  very  unspar- 
ing when  he  told  me  my  faults." 

"  But  I  would  rather  know  them ;  I  would  rather  he  should 
tell  me  of  them.  I  don't  want  any  one  to  think  better  of  me 
than  I  am  ;  only  it  always  seemed  that  indolence  was  much 
worse  than  pride." 

"  There  is  not  much  to  choose  between  them,  I  am  afraid," 
said  Mr.  Vivian. 

"  But  pride  ! — people  would  be  nothing  without  pride," 
exclaimed  Ella,  and  she  sat  up,  and  turned  to  Mr.  Lester  for 
an  answer. 

"  Nothing  without  self-respect,"  replied  Mr.  Lester ;  "  and 
that  must  be  founded  upon  truth,  and  those  who  see  them- 
Belves  truly  can  never  be  proud." 

*'I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  self-respect." 

*'  A  respect  for  ourselves  as  being  God's  creatures,  re- 
deemed and  sanctified  by  him ;  made  the  dwelling-place  of 
His  Spirit,  and  destined  to  live  with  Him  hereafter.  That 
respect  will  make   w-   fear  to  do,  or  say,  or  think  an}  thing 


CLEVE    HALL.  4o7 

which  may  lower  us  in  His  eyes ;  but  when  we  have  done  so, 
it  will  force  us  at  once  to  acknowledge  our  fault,  because  it  is 
only  by  that  acknowledgment  that  we  can  be  restored  to  His 
favor." 

"  That  scarcely  meets  Ella's  notions,"  said  Mr.  Vivian,  as 
he  watched  his  child's  face ;   "  she  is  thinking  of  this  world." 

"  Well,  then,  as  regards  this  world ;  self-respect.  Ella,  is  but 
a  phase  of  that  foundation  of  all  things,  truth.  Proud  people 
place  themselves  in  false  positions ;  persons  with  self-respect 
see  exactly  what  they  have  a  claim  to.  No  one  calls  a  prince 
proud  because  he  requires  to  be  honored  as  a  prince ;  self- 
respect  teaches  him  to  claim  such  attention.  But  when  he 
forgets  that  other  persons  have  their  stations  requiring  honor 
also,  then  pride  begins,  and  self-respect  ceases.  In  this  point 
of  view,  however,  self-respect  is  only  a  natural  virtue,  and  may 
be  possessed  where  there  is  no  real  religion.  The  genuine 
feeling  is  that  which  I  spoke  of  befoi'e,  and  which  must  always 
go  hand  in  hand  with  humility.  But  we  have  had  enough 
lecturing  upon  faults  this  morning,"  added  Mr.  Lester,  sud- 
denly stopping,  and  changing  his  tone.  "  I  must  go  and  see 
after  my  other  parishioners,  and  talk  a  little  to  Rachel.  I  only 
saw  her  for  a  minute  last  night,  and  she  had  a  wonderful  story 
to  tell  me  of  her  adventures  yesterday." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Ella ;  she  took  it  shyly  but  cor- 
dially and  said,  "  Thank  you."     Her  heart  was  quite  full. 

"  Don't  consider  me  very  severe,  dear  child,  if  you  can 
help  it ;  I  only  want  you  to  be  perfect  now  papa  is  come." 

He  went  up  to  Clement,  who  was  standing  in  the  back- 
ground. 

"  It  maybe  all  forgotten,"  said  Mr.  Vivian,  ''may  it  not  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  And  one  thing, 
Clement,  I  say  from  my  heart :  I  trust  you  now  more  than  I 
have  ever  done  before.     I  am  sure  you  are  heartily  sorry." 

Clement's  eyes  sparkled  through  tears  :  "  You  shall  have 
cau.se,  Sir;  indeed  I  don't  mean  to  forget." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  boy,  and  give  ycu  strengili  to 
keep  your  resolution." 

jMr.  Lester  departed,  and  Clement  tlirew  himself  into  hii) 
fathei-'s  arms,  and  sobbed. 

20 


458  OLEVE    HALL. 


CHAPTER  LIT. 

WEARY  and  anxious  were  the  hours  spent  by  ^Mildred 
Vivian  in  her  father's  sick  chamber.  She  was  tokl 
there  was  nothing  to  fear;  she  scarcely  thought  there  was; 
and  yet  the  suspense  and  watching,  the  sense  of  personal 
helplessness,  the  boding  care  for  her  brother,  the  longing  to 
search  into  the  depths  of  her  father's  thoughts,  aggravated 
every  symptom  in  her  eyes.  One  fear  after  another  presented 
itself.  He  lay  still  and  silent,  and  she  thought  that  some  sud- 
den weakness  had  paralyzed  his  powers.  He  was  restless,  and 
she  fancied  that  fever  was  coming  on.  He  looked  flushed,  and 
she  thought  there  was  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head.  But  the 
fear  which  most  haunted  her  was  that  of  paralysis.  Such  an 
attack,  common  at  his  age,  might  weaken  his  mental  powers, 
and  render  futile  all  endeavors  to  explain  her  brother's  con- 
duct. She  was  with  him  constantly,  but  he  said  very  little  to 
her.  He  did  not  sleep,  but  his  mind  seemed  absorbed  with 
thoughts  which  he  would  not  communicate,  but  which  seemed 
working  and  goading  him  almost  beyond  endurance. 

As  he  neither  questioned  her  concerning  Mr.  Lester's  re- 
turn, nor  referred  to  the  missing  paper,  Mildred  feared  to 
agitate  him  by  bringing  the  subject  before  him.  Yet  it  was 
evident  that  such  a  state  of  things  could  not  long  continue. 
The  feelings  preying  upon  him  would  inevitably  work  their 
way  fatally,  if  some  stop  were  not  put  to  them ;  and  on  the 
foui'th  day  after  the  beginning  of  this  miserable  suspense, 
Mildred  ventui-ed  to  mention  Mr.  Lester's  name,  and  ask 
whether  her  father  would  be  willing  to  see  him. 

"If  he  will,  he  may  come;"  that  was  all  the  answer:  but 
it  was  sufficient  for  Mildred,  and  she  despatched  a  messenger 
to  the  Rectory,  with  the  request  that  IMt.  Lester  would,  if 
possible,  be  at  the  Hall  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon. 

The  General  insisted  upon  dressing  and  sitting  up  then, 
though  he  had  been  told  that  to  rise  might  bring  back  the 
oiddiness  and  faiutness.  He  was  veiy  weak,  but  he  would 
scarcely  allow  Greaves  to  wait  upon  him,  and  when  he  went 
into  his  dressing-room,  he  ordered  his  books  and  papers  to  be 
brought,  and  endeavored  to  write  a  letter;  but  his  hand  shook 
.so  much,  that  he  was  obliged  to  give  up  the  attempt.  Mil- 
dred was  sitting  with  him  at  the  time,  and  offered  to  write  for 


CLEVE   HALL,  450 

him.  He  refused.  ''  It  was  no  matter  of  consequence,"  he 
said,  "and  would  do  just  as  well  another  day.  His  hand  was 
a  little  shaky  from  lying  in  bed  so  long.''  It  was  evident  that 
he  did  not  choose  to  be  thought  ill. 

Luncheon  came,  aud  he  made  an  effort  to  eat,  but  nothing 
suited  his  taste.  He  was  full  of  complaints,  and  at  last  took 
only  a  little  wine-and-water  and  a  biscuit;  even  that  he  only 
pretended  to  eat,  and  soon  put  it  aside,  and  sent  for  the  news- 
paper. 

Greaves  brought  the  "  Times." 

"  Not  that ;  the  county  paper.     Where  is  it  ?" 

Greares  looked  at  Mildred. 

"  I  thought  you  wouldn't  care  to  read  that,  Sir,  and  I  took 
it  to  my  room,"  replied  Mildred. 

"  Bring  it ;"  and  Greaves  went  unwillingly. 

He  came  back :  "  I  am  very  sorry.  Ma'am,  I  have  looked 
everywhere  in  the  morning-room,  and  can't  find  it." 

Mildred  regarded  him  scrutinizingly :  "  Are  you  sure  it  is 
not  there.  Greaves  ?" 

"  Very  nearly,  Ma'am.     I  will  look  again  if  you  wish  it." 

"Ask  Miss  Ella;  she  may  have  it,"  said  Mildred;  but 
Greaves  showed  no  alacrity  to  obey. 

"  Ella !  what  has  she  to  do  with  newspapers  ?"  inquired 
the  General.     "  You  don't  let  her  read  them,  do  you?" 

"  Not  often.  Sir;  only " 

The  General  interrupted  her  :  "  Go  and  ask  IMiss  Ella  for 
the  paper,  Greaves.     Tell  her  to  bring  it  herself,  if  she  has  it." 

He  sat  bending  over  the  fire,  aud  did  not  even  look  at 
Mildred. 

Ella  came,  the  newspaper  in  her  hand  :  "  Do  you  want  me, 
Grandpapa  ?     Shall  I  read  to  you  ?" 

"  What  is  there  in  the  paper  worth  reading?  Anything 
particular  ?" 

Ella  became  as  pale  as  death, — then  the  blood  crimsoned 
her  very  temples. 

The  General  repeated  the  question:  "You  have  been 
reading  it  yourself,  child.     What  was  there  in  it  ?" 

"Aunt  Mildred  let  me  see  the  account  of  the  smuggling 
fray,"  replied  Ella. 

"What  smuggling  fray  ?  At  Enconibe  ?  Let  me  sec  it  ?" 
He  adjusted  his  spectacles,  turned  to  the  light,  but  could  not 
read,  and  gave  the  paper  back  to  Ella.     "  It  tires  nie,  my 


400  CLEVE   HALL. 

deal*.  Lying  iu  bed  so  long  makes  one's  eyes  weak.  Read 
it  out." 

Ella  •would  falu  liave  haudcd  the  paper  to  Mildred.  The 
General  observed  it. 

"  Head  it  yourself,  my  dear;  dou't  trouble  your  aunt." 

And  Ella  read  a  long,  prolix  account  of  the  landing  of  the 
smugglers,  and  the  watchl'ulncss  of  the  coast-guard,  with  some 
uncomfortable  particulars  of  the  struggle  between  them,  and 
the  detail  of  Golf's  death.     Then  she  stopped. 

"Is  that  alV  my  dear?" 

"  Nearly  all.  Grandpapa." 

"  Well,  make  haste,  finish  it.     Mr.  Lester  will  be  here." 

"It  isn't  exactly  about  the  smugglers,  Grandpapa;  it  is 
only " 

"  Read  it,— read  it,  child." 

Ella's  voice  shook  so  that  her  words  wore  scarcely  intelli- 
gible :  "  We  regret  to  say,  that  a  rumor  is  abroad  implicating 
a  young  gentleman  of  honorable  birth  in  this  disgraceful 
affair.  The  circumstances  are  very  mysterious,  but  are  said 
to  be  connected  with  a  train  of  unfortunate  events  by  which 
the  succession  to  one  of  the  finest  estates  in  the  county  has 
been  alienated." 

"What?"  General  Vivian  caught  the  paper  from  her 
hand  and  looked  at  it,  though  it  was  clear  he  could  scarcely 
distinguish  the  words.      "  Carry  it  to  your  aunt,  Ella." 

"  I  have  read  it,  Sir,  thank  you.     Ella,  you  may  go." 

The  storm  was  about  to  burst  when  Ella  closed  the  door. 
Mildred  said  timidly,  "  I  did  not  like  to  worry  you.  Sir,  when 
you  were  so  unwell." 

"  Nothing  worries  me.     When  did  it  happen  V 

"  Four  nights  ago,  Sir :  the  evening  you  were  taken  ill  the 
second  time." 

"Where  is  the  boy?" 

"At  home.  Sir,  with  Mrs.  Campbell.  But  indeed  the 
papers  are  hard  upon  him." 

"  Of  course,  when  they  say  disagreeable  things.  Does  he 
mean  to  take  up  smuggling  as  a  profession  ?" 

"  My  dear  Father  !  indeed,  indeed  you  are  cruel  upon  him. 
tie  did  not  join  them, — at  least  not  willingly;  he  was  led 
away." 

"  No  doubt :  all  persons  are  who  go  wrong." 

"  I  think,  Sir,  if  you  could  hear  him, — if  you  could  see 


CLEVE    HALL.  461 

him,  you  vrovild  judoe  him  more  geutly.  lie  is  so  entirely 
peuiteut  fur  his  folly." 

"  All  persons  arc  whcu  they  are  suffering  from  the  conse- 
quences." 

"  But  he  is  so  young,"  continued  Mildred, — ''  such  a  mere 
boy;  and  he  did  not  in  the  least  intend  to  go  with  the  smug- 
glers,— he  was  entrapped.     It  was  Captain  Vivian's  doing." 

"Doubtless;  the  same  game  which  he  played  years  ago." 

*'  3Ir.  Lester  will  say  more  for  poor  Clement  than  I  can," 
continued  IMildred ;  "  he  has  heard  all  the  particulars,  and  he 
is  thoroughly  convinced  that  Clement  is  deeply  grieved  for 
what  has,  happened,  and  is  resolved  to  amend." 

"  I  never  said  that  Clement  was  uot  grieved.  But  since 
IMr.  Lester  knows  everything," — and  there  was  a  peculiar 
stress  upou  the  words, — "  no  doubt  he  can  explain  more  of 
the  mysterious  circumstances  alluded  to." 

]\lildred  looked  thoroughly  disheartened  :  "  I  would  rather 
Mr.  Lester  should  talk  to  you,  my  dear  Father.  1  know  all 
so  indistinctly, — by  hearsay." 

"  Hearsay  troubles  itself  with  things  which  very  little  con- 
cern it,"  observed  the  General,  "  whcu  it  remarks  upon  the 
disposition  which  it  may  please  me  to  make  of  my  property. 
AVhoever  wishes,  however,  to  know  my  final  and  irrevocable 
decision  upon  the  subject,  is  perfectly  welcome  to  do  so.  The 
old  lands  of  the  Vivians  shall  never,  with  my  consent,  descend 
to  the  hands  of  base  swindlers,  or  be  wasted  by  the  companion 
of  smugglers." 

"  Edward  a  swindler !  My  dear,  dear  Father,  how  little 
you  know !" 

"  What  else  is  it  but  swindling,"  continued  the  General, 
"  to  promise  that  which  you  have  no  power  to  pay ;  to  give 
away  that  which  is  not  your  own ;  to  mortgage  an  inheritance 
which  a  single  word  may  alienate  ?  Like  father,  like  son. 
Let  them  go.  And  for  you,  Mildred,  and  Mr.  Lester," — he 
j)aused — his  words  came  thickly — "you  may  plot  too  deeply 
for  your  own  honor  and  for  mine." 

"Father,  you  mistake  me;  you  do  me  wrong."  IMildred's 
voice  was  eager,  and  her  cheek  flushed  with  all  the  inherent 
pride  of  her  race;  but  in  one  moment  it  was  checked.  "  I  am 
sorry, — forgive  me — I  will  not  speak  of  myself;  but,  indeed, 
you  arc  unjust  to  Mr.  Lester.  And  fur  Edward, — Oh  !  believe 
lue;  there  is  indeed  a  mystery,  but  he  never  did  the  deed  for 


4G2  CLEVE    HALL. 

which  you  disinherited  hiiu.  The  p:>pcr  hroiiirht  before  j'^ou 
was  11  base  f(iri;ery." 

General  Vivian's  eye  was  stony  and  fixed,  liis  face  was 
rigid.  Mildred  drew  near,  and  sat  down  beside  him.  "  3Iy 
dearest  Father!  You  hear  it;  it  is  truth.  Edward  himseit" 
says  it.  IMay  he  not — will  you  not  lot  him  come  to  you  and 
tell  _Y()U  so  V 

He  regarded  her  almost  vacantly,  yet  he  repeated  the  word 
"  forgery  T' 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  she  continued;  ''you  can't  d(jubt  him.  It 
was  revenge, — Captain  Vivian's  revenge.    It  is  certain." 

"  Let  me  see  the  paper."  The  General  pa:ised  his  hand 
across  his  forehead. 

"  Dearest  Father  !  will  you  listen  to  me?  Sh:dl  we  wait? 
Mr.  Lester  is  comiug,  and  will  explain." 

"I  must  see  it, — it  was  his  handwriting — his  own.  Give 
it  me, — in  the  box ;  but  it  is  gone,  Mr.  Lester  took  it.  Oh, 
Mildred  !  my  child  !  plots,  plots,  everywhei'e  !"  and  he  turned 
his  head  away  from  her  and  rested  it  in  utter  feebloacss  and 
exhaustion  against  the  back  of  his  chair. 

Mildred  allowed  him  to  remain  thus  without  interruption 
for  some  seconds;  then  she  again  said,  very  gently:  "Mr. 
Lester's  coming  will  make  all  clear  to  you,  Sir.  lie  will  be 
here  almost  directly." 

He  kept  her  hand  clasped  in  his,  clutching  it  at  times  con- 
vulsively. She  thought  he  did  not  hear  when  the  hall-door 
bell  rang;  but  he  raised  himself  with  a  sudden  effort,  pushed 
her  aside,  and  tried  to  draw  the  table  near  to  him,  then  sank 
back  again  powerless. 

INIildred  watched  him  with  anxiety.  "  If  it  is  Mr.  Lester, 
dear  Sir,  will  you  see  him  ?" 

He  bent  his  head  in  assent,  and  again  tried  to  sit  up.  Mil- 
dred put  a  cushion  behind  him,  and  made  him  rest  his  feet  on 
a  footstool.  Even  at  that  moment,  it  struck  her  how  old  and 
Avorn  he  looked — much  older  than  his  age.  ''  Shall  I  stay  for 
Mr.  Lester,  or  will  you  see  him  alone?"  she  asked. 

''Stay;  put  a  chair;  tell  Greaves  to  bring  me  my  draught 
first." 

That  caused  a  little  delay,  which  Mildred  did  not  regret, 
earnestly  though  she  longed  for  the  interview  to  be  over.  It 
was  a  breathing  time ;  it  gave  her  a  moment  for  prayer. 
Greaves  bustled  about  in  the  room  longer  than  seemed  neccs- 
Bavy  ;  but  he  did  good ;    he  distracted  the  (ieneral's  attention 


CLEVE    HALL.  463 

and  loused  him.  He  said,  at  last,  "That  will  do;  go."  And 
the  irritable  tone  was  a  comfort  to  31ildred. 

One  glance  interchanged  between  Mildred  and  Mr.  Lester 
told  little  to  either  of  aught  except  suspense.  Mr.  Lester  went 
up  to  the  general  :  "  I  am  afraid  I  find  you  ill,  Sir." 

"Better,  thank  you;  I  am  sitting  up." 

"  Yes ;  he  has  kept  his  bed  the  last  four  days,"  observed 
Mildred.     "  I  don't  exactly  know  what  has  been  the  matter." 

"  Gout  hanging  about.  You  have  been  to  London,  Mr. 
Lester  ?" 

"  For  a  day  or  two,  Sir.  I  returned  just  before  you  were 
taken  ill,  and  should  have  called  to  see  you  if  I  had  been 
allowed,  but  they  said  you  ought  to  be  kept  quiet." 

"  I  have  business  with  you." 

"  Have  you,  Sir  ?  Might  it  not  be  as  well  to  delay  it  till 
you  are  rather  stronger  ?" 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,  but  I   am  the  judge  of  my  own 

strength.     You  have  a  paper  of  mine.     I  gave  it "      He 

stopped,  and  looked  distressed,  and  turned  with  an  appealing 
glance  to  3Iildred. 

"No,  dear  Sir;  if  you  recollect,  you  did  not  give  it.  It 
was  that  which  worried  you.  But  Mr.  Lester  will  tell  you 
about  it.     He  was  telling  me  last  night." 

That  acknowledgment  was  repented  of  a.s  soon  as  made,  for 
a  fi'own  rested  on  the  General's  face. 

"  It  must  have  been  taken  up  by  me  accidentally,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Lester,  "the  day  I  was  with  you,  Sir,  looking  over 
your  papers.  That  is  the  only  way  I  can  account  for  its  hav- 
ing come  into  my  possession.  Certainly  I  was  not  aware  that 
I  had  it,  until  Miss  Campbell  told  me  she  had  found  it  in  my 
pocket-book." 

"  Campbell !  Campbell  !"  muttered  the  General  to  himself. 
"  Is  she  in  it  T'  The  mention  of  the  name  had  evidently 
awakened  some  old  prejudice  and  dislike.  He  spoke  more 
distinctly,  "  I  must  have  it  back ;  it  is  important.  Mildred 
says " 

"  What  is  quite  true,  Sir, — ^^that  it  is  a  forgery." 

"I  would  look  at  it, — fetch  it  for  me,  Mildred.  I  beg 
your  pardon,  3Ir.  Lester,  I  don't  know  who  has  it, — it  has 
been  taken  from  me — I  must  see  it."  The  tone  became  more 
and  more  excited. 

Mildred  and  Mr.  Lester  glanced  at  each  other  in  alarm. 

"  What  makes  you   look  so?    Why  don't  you  speak  out? 


464  CLEVE    HALL. 

If  it's  a  forgery,  why  isn't  it  proved  ?  It  .sliiiU  be  proved  ;  I 
will  have  it  tried.  The  last  penny  I  have  shall  be  speut  tc 
try  it." 

"  If  you  will  see  your  son,  Sir,"  said  jMr.  Lester,  mildly, 
"he  ■will  convince  you.  Had  you  not  better  see  hiiu '{  lie  is 
at  Kneonibe,  lonj^iiig  to  be  admitted  to  you." 

General  V^ivian  turned  round  upon  him  sharply  :  "  Is  that 
yiiur  object,  Mr.  Lester'/" 

"  My  object  is  to  see  justice  done.  Sir." 

"  And  mine — mine,  too.  I  don't  doubt  you,  Mr.  Lester. 
Yuu  are  a  gentleman.      Where  is  the  paper?" 

"Destroyed,  Sir;" — there  was  no  escape  from  a  direct 
answer; — "  by  a  most  unhappy  mischance.  The  villain  Goff, 
Captain  Vivian's  witness,  and  the  sharer,  I  presume,  in  the 
profits  of  his  crime,  took  it  by  force  from  INliss  Campbell,  as 
she  was  returning  the  other  evening  from  the  Hall,  and  tore 
it  to  atoms.  How  he  obtained  the  information  that  she  hud 
it,  I  cannot  tell." 

The  General  was  quite  silent. 

"  I  need  not  say,  Sir,  that  Miss  Campbell's  word  is  above 
suspicion." 

"  You  saw  the  paper,  Mr.  Lester?" 

"No,  Sir;  I  knew  nothing  about  it  until  my  return  from 
London." 

"  I  saw  it,"  exclaimed  Mildred. 

"Then  you  can  tell;  yes,  you  must  bo  the  best  judge  of 
all.  Was  it  your  brother's  handwriting  ?"  and  the  General's 
eye  rested  upon  her  with  its  cold,  clear,  scrutinizing  glance. 

Mildred  felt  herself  defeated  by  her  own  words.  She  could 
only  say  that  certainly  it  was  veiy  like  it,  but  that  of  course 
it  would  be,  to  be  a  successful  forgery.  She  had  not  examined 
it  minutely. 

"  And  Miss  Campbell  obtained  possession  of  it,"  munnurcd 
the  General  to  himself. 

"  Accidentally,  Sir. — She  found  it  by  mistake  in  my  pocket- 
book." 

"  Where  it  should  have  been  left,  ]Mr.  Lester.  It  was  not 
IMiss  Campbell's  business  to  pry  into  the  concerns  of  anothei 
family." 

"  She  meant  no  harm,  my  dear  father.  It  was  very  natu 
cal ;  she  felt  the  paper  to  be  of  importance." 

"  Of  the  greatest  importance. — So  much  so,  Mildred,  that 
without  it"— he  stopped — •'  Mr.  Lester,  I  don't  doubt  you." 


CLEVE    HALL.  4G5 

"Then,  Sir;  you  will  see  your  son." 

"  My  son, — tell  him  from  me  that  I  forgive  him." 

"  My  father  !  My  dear,  dear  father,  have  pit}'  upon  him. 
His  heart  yearns  to  see  you,"  exclaimed  Mildred. 

"  I  have  pity,  I  forgive  him.  Justice  forhids  me  to  do 
more  without  proof.  Mr.  Lester,  bid  him  look  after  his  boy, 
or  there  will  yet  be  a  further  disgrace  awaiting  us.  Mildred, 
ring  for  Greaves,  I  would  go  to  my  room." 

Mildred  delayed,  with  her  hand  on  the  bell,  and  looked 
entreatingly  at  Mr.  Lester,  then  doubtfully  on  her  father. 

The  General  read  their  countenances. 

''  You  think  me  hard.  If  you  could  stand  in  my  place  j-ou 
would  judge  me  better."  He  tried  to  raise  himself  from  his 
chair,  but  he  was  too  weak.  And  as  he  sat  down  again,  and 
leaned  his  head  upon  his  hands,  Mildred  saw  tears  trickle 
through  them. 

She  kissed  his  forehead,  and  he  did  not  repel  L  sr,  though 
he  would  not  notice  her. 

She  whispered  to  him :  "  Is  there  not  comfort  in  the 
thought  of  his  innocence  ?"  And  then  he  dashed  away  the 
hand  which  lay  upon  his,  and  told  her  to  leave  him. 

Mr.  Lester  made  one  more  effort.  "  General  Vivian  !  you 
speak  of  justice.  It  is  unjust  to  refuse  to  see  your  son,  and 
to  hear  what  he  can  say  in  his  own  defence." 

"Proof,"  murmured  the  General;   "let  him  bring  proof." 

"But  if  he  cannot,  my  dearest  father;  if  you  insist  upon 
that  which  it  is  impossible  to  obtain?" 

The  General  shook  his  head,  his  clearness  of  intellect 
seemed  failing  again. 

"  We  must  not  urge  it,"  whispered  Mr.  Lester  to  Mildred. 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  when  Greaves  came,  Mr.  Lester 
left  the  room;  the  General  taking  no  notice  of  his  departure. 


CHAPTER  Lin. 


T>  OXALD  VIVIAN  sat  in  a  largo  arm-chair,  by  the  side 
W  of  the  low,  open  hearth  in  jMark  Wood's  cottage.  Bar- 
ney's couch  was  opposite :  the  child  was  much  attenuated, 
•iiid  liis  face  expressed  more  constant  pain.    In  a  distant  corner, 


4GG  CLEVE   HALL. 

Mother  Brower  w;is  busied  in  knitting  a  pair  of  small  woollen 
socks.  The  traces  of  what  might  have  been  years  of  sickness 
and  sorrow  were  visible  in  Ronald's  worn  countenance,  yet  still 
more  visibly  was  stamped  upon  it  the  energy  which  might  still 
struggle  and  conquer,  grounded  upon  the  endurance  which 
might  suffer  but  would  never  yield. 

His  wound  was  not  deep,  though  it  was  very  painful,  lie 
spoke  of  it  himself  now  as  something  light,  scarcely  worlhy 
of  a  thought.  Yet  it  distressed  him  so  much  to  move,  that 
it  was  clear  that  great  care  would  be  needful  before  it  could 
be  expected  to  heal.  Barney  was  trying  to  amuse  himself 
with  cutting  out  figures,  but  it  was  an  effort  to  him  to  hold 
the  scissors.  From  time  to  time  he  looked  up  wistfully  at 
llonald,  whose  eyes  were  closed. 

"  He's  asleep,  isn't  he?"  said  the  old  woman,  laying  down 
her  knitting. 

"Not  asleep,  thank  you,  Mother;"  and  Ronald  opened  his 
eyes  and  smiled. 

"Why  do  you  shut  up  your  eyes  if  you  ain't  sleepy?" 
asked  Barney,  rather  sharply. 

'•  Because  it  rests  them.     When  one's  ill  one's  eyes  ache." 

"  I'm  ill,  but  my  eyes  don't  acho.  Is  it  'cause  they  shot 
you,  that  your  eyes  are  bad  ?" 

"I  suppose  it  is;  but  I  dare  say  they  won't  ache  long. 
You  know  I'm  getting  well." 

"  Sooner  talked  of  than  done, — that,"  muttered  Mother 
Brewer  from  her  corner;  and  Barney  turned  round  and  looked 
at  her,  but  did  not  trouble  himself  to  ask  what  she  said. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  get  well,  Ronald.  I  like  you  best  to 
be  ill ;  only  you  can't  play  so  easy." 

"  I  don't  know  that  it's  very  kind  of  you,  Barney,  to  wish 
that  I  should  always  be  ill ;  but  I  suppose  you  mean  it  so." 

"You'll  be  going  off  if  you  get  well,"  said  Barney;  "and 
Father  said  one  day  that  if  you  didn't  you'd  go  to  Heaven 
with  me,  and  that's  what  I  should  like." 

"  But,  Barney,  you  know  we  may  travel  the  same  way,  and 
meet  at  the  end,  though  we  don't  go  quite  together.  I've  got 
a  good  deal  to  do  before  I  get  to  Heaven." 

"  I  dare  say  you'd  be  let  off",  if  you  asked,"  said  Barney; 
"  and  you'd  like  best  to  go." 

Ronald  was  silent. 

"You  would  like  it  sure,"  continued  the  child;  "every- 
body likes  to  go  to  Heaven,  'cause  it's  so  beautiful.     I  want 


CLEVE    HALL.  4C7 

to  see  the  golden  streets :  Mother  Brewer  thinks  that  they 
shiae  as  bright  as  Miss  Rachel's  picture-frame  youder,  wheu 
the  sun's  on  it.     Shouldn't  you  like  to  see  them?" 

llonald  still  delayiug  his  answer,  the  question  was  repeated 
again  rather  querulously.  "  Yes,  by-aud-by ;  very  much  in- 
deed," was  the  reply.  But  llonald  spoke  as  if  his  thoughts 
were  scarcely  in  his  words. 

''It's  wicked  of  you  if  you  don't  wish  it,"  continued  Bar- 
ney. "  Parson  Lester  says,  nobody  ever  speaks  cross  theie,  or 
says  bad  words." 

*'No  indeed,  they  don't,"  said  llonald,  sadly. 

"  And  there  are  beautiful  angels  all  dressed  in  white,  and 
singing  wonderful,"  continued  Barney;  "and  a  river  so  clear, 
you  can  see  quite  through,  and  fine  trees,  and  fruits. — Don't 
you  want  to  go  ?" 

"  If  God  is  pleased  to  take  me,  I  hope  I  shaL  be  quite  glad 
to  go,"  replied  llonald.  "  But,  Barney,  I  don't  think  God 
does  wish  me  to  go  yet;  and  so  I  would  rather  stay  and  do 
His  work  here." 

"Work!  what  work?     Captain  John  don't  work." 

"But  I  must." 

"  Fishing  ?"  asked  Barney. 

A  smile  came  over  Ronald's  face;  but  Barney  looked  at 
him  quite  steadily  and  earnestly. 

"  Not  that  kind  of  work,  but  trying  to  make  myself  good  ; 
and  others  too,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  voice. 

"  That's  not  W'ork,"  said  Barney;  "  that's  praying." 

"  But  praying  is  a  kind  of  work,  because  sometimes  it  is  a 
trouble  to  say  one's  prayers." 

"  I  don't  like  it,  sometimes;  but  that's  'cause  I'm  not  good. 
When  I  get  to  Heaven  I  shan't  say  my  prayers  to  Mother 
Brewer ;  and  then  I  shall  attend." 

"  Ah  !  but,  Barney,  we  must  leam  to  attend  before  we  get 
to  Heaven ;  and  we  must  do  a  great  many  other  things  be- 
sides, which  are  hard  to  us,  and  we  must  try  to  set  a  good 
example." 

"  What's  'sample?"  asked  Barney. 

"  Behaving  well  before  others,"  replied  Ronald,  "  and  so 
showing  them  how  to  do  the  same." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  and  I  go  to  Heaven,  we  can  set  a  good 
'sample  there." 

"  But  people  don't  want  to  have  any  examples  set  them  in 


e 


4G8  CLEVE    HALL. 

Ileiivon,  because  thoy  live  with  God  and  Jesus  Christ,  and  so 
they  have  the  ])est  example  before  them,  and  never  do  wronjj^." 

Jiaruey  was  thouj^htt'ul.  Presently  he  said  :  "  Father  don't 
set  me  a  a;ood  'sample;  he  says  bad  words,  and  spenks  out. 
And  Captain  John  don't  set  you  one,  does  he  r"' 

"  lie  speaks  out  sometimes,"  replied  llonald  evasively. 

"  Then  do  you  mean  to  set  him  a  good  'sample  instead  l"' 

"  If  I  can.*" 

"And  that's  why  you  want  to  stay,"  said  l^irney,  still 
looking  as  if  he  were  pondering  deeply.  In  another  moment 
he  turned  his  head  aside  and  sobbed  as  if  his  little  heart  would 
break. 

"Barney!  my  poor  child!" — llonald  was  going  to  move 
from  his  chair,  but  was  stopped  by  the  old  woman,  who  put 
down  her  knitting  and  went  up  to  the  ccnch. 

"  What's  the  matter  now  ?  what's  a  crying  for  ?  Come, 
stop ;  be  a  good  boy,  leave  off,"  said  Mother  Brewer,  alter- 
nating between  anger  and  coaxing. 

"  I  want  to  be  put  next  llonald,  in  my  chair,"  sobbed 
Barney. 

"  You  shall  be  put  next  me  if  you  leave  off  crying;  but  I 
can't  let  you  come  till  you  do,"  said  llonald. 

The  child  exercised  singular  self-command.  His  tears 
were  swallowed  almost  instantaneously;  but  his  neck  still 
heaved  convulsively. 

The  old  woman  placed  him  in  a  high  chair,  propped  him 
np  with  pillows,  and  carried  him  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
hearth. 

He  put  his  hand  in  Ronald's,  but  did  not  speak  till  IMothor 
Brewer  had  retired  again  to  her  corner;  then  he  hid  his  face 
on  Ronald's  shoulder,  and  whispered  in  a  voice  interrupted 
by  sobs :  "  I  don't  want  to  stay  and  set  father  a  'sample. 
Must  I  ?" 

Ronald  passed  his  arm  lovingly,  for  support,  round  the 
poor,  little  skeleton-frame,  and  answered :  "  I  don't  think 
God  wants  you  to  stay,  Barney;  He  only  wants  you  to  be 
good  whilst  you  are  here." 

"  I'll  be  very  good, — I  won't  cry  once,  and  I  won't  look 
about  when  I  say  my  prayers,  and  I'll  say  all  my  hymns 
thi-ough;  only  I  don't  want  it  to  be  long;  it  pains  me  so;" 
and  agjiin  he  began  to  cry,  but  more  gently,  from  weakness 
find  over  excitement. 

Ronald  let  him  rest  quietly,  and  hoped  he  might  go  to 


CLEVE    HALL.  469 

sleep;  and  he  did  close  his  e^^es  for  a  few  moments,  but 
opened  them  ag:iiu  to  saj,  in  a  dreamy  voice,  "  You'll  come 
too,  llonald  ?" 

And  Kouald  answered  cheerlully,  ''  Yes,  soon ;  by-and- 
by;"  and  that  seemed  to  satisfy  him.  At  length  be  fell 
asleep,  and,  Konald  motioning  to  the  old  woman,  he  was  taken 
back  to  his  couch,  and  laid  upon  it. 

Mr.  Lester  came  whilst  Barney  was  still  asleep.  He  saw 
Pkouald  regularly ;  and  his  visits  were  comforting,  yet  not  to 
himself  quite  satisfactory.  Konald  was  very  reserved,  and 
seemed  unwilling  to  say  what  was  on  his  mind ;  and  though 
Mr.  Lester  knew  what  had  passed  between  him  and  Mr.  Vi- 
vian, and  that  he  was  fully  acquainted  with  his  father's  con- 
duct, he  dared  not  bring  forward  a  subject  so  full  of  pain. 
Y"et  there  were  many  allusions  to  it.  lionald's  c\ief  interest 
was  for  Mr.  Vivian,  and  the  probability  of  his  being  admitted 
to  an  interview  with  the  General,  and  obtaining  his  pardon. 
Almost  the  first  question  he  asked  when  he  saw  Mr.  Lester 
the  day  after  the  smuggling  skirmish,  had  reference  to  this 
point ;  and  he  was  now  frequently  referring  to  it.  It  was  in- 
deed an  engrossing  subject  of  thought;  for  on  the  failure  of 
the  meeting  depended  the  necessity,  so  intensely  painful,  of 
coming  forward  with  his  father's  written  confession.  Mr. 
Lester  once  proposed  that  Mr.  Vivian  should  come  and  see 
hiiu,  but  Ronald  seemed  to  dislike  the  idea.  He  had  not  even 
as  yet  begged  to  see  JMiss  Campbell,  though  he  always  sent  a 
message  to  her.  A  spirit  of  torpor  seemed,  for  the  most  part, 
to  have  succeeded  his  natural  daring  excitement  of  tempera- 
ment ;  and  he  was  willintr  to  sit  for  hours  brooding  over  the 
fire,  now  and  then  apparently  asleep,  but  in  reality  alive  to 
evei'ything  which  might  take  place  around  him. 

He  was  more  like  himself  this  day,  for  Barney  had  done 
him  good  by  making  him  anxious,  and  when  the  old  woman 
had  left  him  alone  with  Mr.  Lester,  there  was  a  topic  to  enter 
upon  at  once,  without  the  preliminary  questions  as  to  his  own 
health,  which  were  alwa3's  ii'ksome  to  him. 

"  He  is  looking  worse  to-day/'  was  his  remark,  made  in  a 
low  voice,  as  he  pointed  to  the  child. 

Mr.  Lester  went  up  to  the  couch,  and  stood  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, watching  Barney's  irregular  breathing,  and  the  burn- 
ing spot  on  his  little  thin  cheek. 

''Yes,  he  does  look  a  good  deal  worse,"  he  said,  fniniii;.: 


470  CLEVE    HALL. 

back  to  llonald's  chair,  and  dnnviiip;  liis  own   near  llio  fire 
"  Has  the  doctor  seen  him  '{" 

"lie  is  coniinsji;  by-and-by;  but  no  doctor  will  liolji  him 
now ;"  and  Ronald  bruslied  his  hand  across  his  eye«. 

"One  can't  wish  it;  it  would  hi  no  s2;ood  to  him  to  keep 
him." 

"  And  it  won't  matter  to  me,"  said  Ronald.  "  Anyhow  I 
shouldn't  be  here  to  see  him;  and  I  would  rather  think  of 
him  as  safe." 

"  And  look  forward  to  joining  him,"  replied  Mr.  Lester. 
"  That  may  be  before  very  long  for  any  of  us ;  though  it  may 
seem  long  to  you,  Ronald,  with  life  before  you." 

"  I  mustn't  think  of  that  yet,"  replied  Ronald.  Changing 
the  subject,  he  said  quickly :  "  Is  Mr.  Vivian  still  at  the 
Farm  ?" 

"  Yes."     Mr.  Lester  seemed  doubtful  what  further  to  add. 

"  And  the  General  is  not  better,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  is  better,  in  a  way ;  though  he  looks  ill." 

"Then  you  have  seen  him,  Sir?"  and  Ronald  waited  for 
an  answer,  with  evident  anxiety. 

"  For  a  little  while,  just  before  I  came  here.  He  is  a  sin- 
gular man,  Ronald.  The  wall  of  prejudice  and  warped  prin- 
ciple is  too  strong  for  us." 

Ronald  leaned  forward  eagerly.  "  It  mustn't  be.  Oh,  Mr. 
Lester,"  and  his  voice  sank,  "  if  he  has  dealt  hardly  uninten- 
tionally, surely,  surely  he  will  make  amends." 

jMr.  Lester's  reply  was  delayed  for  a  few  seconds.  Pre- 
sently he  said,  not  looking  at  Ronald,  "  He  knows  all,  but  I 
can't  say  what  impression  it  has  made  upon  him;  he  demands 
proof." 

Ronald's  face,  before  very  pale,  became  quite  colorless. 
"  Then  he  would  have  vengeance,"  he  said. 

"  He  would  call  it  justice,  not  vengeance." 

"  And  it  would  be  justice,"  murmured  Ronald. 

"But  he  cannot  have  it;  there  can  be  no  legal  proof; 
your  fiither  is  safe.  IMy  poor  boy  !"  and  Mr.  Lester  laid  his 
hand  upon  Ronald's,   "  you  mustn't  think  of  that." 

"  I  do ;  I  think  of  it  always,  and  I  try  to  feel  the  comfort." 

"You  will  do  so  by-and-by.  You  are  weak  now;  you  can 
scarcely  realize  it." 

"  But  I  do  realize  it.  I  know  that  some  might  say  I 
should  be  content.  They  would  feel  the  outward,  not  the  in- 
ward, wound." 


CLEVE   HALL.  471 

"  Even  that  God  can  comfort,  Ronald,  and  lie  will  as  yearg 
go  on." 

"  He  is  very  merciful ;  I  pray  to  Him  to  help  me  ;  but  to 
begin  life  with  disgrace !"  And  he  shuddered.  The  next 
moment  he  turned  from  the  thought,  and  asked,  "Has  the 
General  seen  Mr.  Vivian  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  There  is  an  immense  amount  of  hidden  excite- 
ment preying  upon  him,  and  I  dread  the  consequences.  It  is 
the  sti'ong-indulged  will,  and  the  warped  spirit  of  manhood, 
working  upon  the  enfeebled  body  of  age,  and  becoming  its 
torture.  No  one  has,  and  no  one,  I  believe,  ever  will,  influence 
him." 

A  long  silence  followed.  Mr.  Lester  again  went  to  Bar- 
ney's couch,  and  looked  at  him  attentively.  When  he  came 
back,  Ronald  was  seated  more  upright,  his  face  and  attitude 
expressive  of  some  strong  self-control. 

He  returned  to  the  subject  without  any  preface,  and  said : 
•'  Then  there  is  no  hope  ?" 

"  I  don't  allow  myself  to  think  so ;  it  is  too  hard  and  un- 
natural. I  must,  to-morrow,  speak  to  him  myself,  alone — as 
only  a  minister  of  God  can  speak.  He  has  no  right  to  de- 
mand proof  against  his  son's  word." 

"  He  shall  have  proof,  to-morrow,"  repeated  Ronald  quietly. 

Mr.  Lester  looked  at  him,  doubting  whether  his  ears  had 
i-ightly  caught  the  words. 

"  He  shall  have  it,  to-morrow,"  repeated  Ronald.  "  If  Mr. 
Vivian  will  meet  me  at  the  Hall,  we  will  see  the  General  to- 
gether." 

Mr.  Lester  felt  uneasy.  Ronald's  voice  was  so  changed 
and  hollow,  and  his  eye  had  a  fixed  glare.  "  You  could  not 
go  with  him,  my  dear  boy,  even  if  you  wished  it,"  he  said, 
gently;   "  remember  how  weak  you  are." 

"  Mark  Wood  will  help  me.     To-morrow,  at  three." 

"  My  dear  Ronald,  this  will  not  do ;  you  are  dreaming  of 
what  it  is  impossible  you  should  perform.  And  your  notions 
are  wrong.  You  can't  think  that  you  are  bound  to  come  for- 
ward in  this  sad  business.     It  is  a  feverish  fancy." 

Ronald  touched  his  pulse.  "  Feel  it.  Sir,  I  am  quite  calm. 
Say  to  Mr.  Vivian  that  I  rely  upon  the  promise  solemnly 
made,  when  I  had  aided  in  saving  his  child's  life.  Now,  will 
you  read  to  me?     It  will  do  mc  good." 

Mr.  licster  paused,  but  there  was  that  in  Rmijild's  ciiuiitc'- 
nance  which  made  him  shrink  from  pursuing  the  subject,  oT 


472  CLEVE    HALL. 

attempting;  to  gainsay  his  will,  at  least  without  consultatlot 
witli  31  r.  Vivian.  lie  read  to  him  and  prayed,  and  Koiiald 
thanked  him  pratcfuUj  and  affectionately,  but  he  made  no  more 
ret'erenee  to  his  determination,  except  by  repeating  when  they 
parted,  '*  To-morrow,  at  three." 

The  remainder  of  that  afternoon  Ronahl  spent  in  sitting 
bv  IJarney's  couch,  holding  the  child's  hand,  smoothing  his 
})illow,  repeating  verses  of  hynms, — trying,  in  every  way  that 
he  could  thiidv  of,  to  soothe  his  pain.  And  from  time  to  time 
the  little  fellow  dozed  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  woke  again 
to  ask  that  llonald  would  please  to  say  the  prayer  for  God  to 
make  him  patient,  for  he  was  very  tired  of  the  ache.  The 
other  children  returned  from  school,  and  were  taken  into  the 
back  room  by  Mother  Brewer,  and  kept  quiet  with  playthings ; 
and  about  six  o'clock  Mark  Wood,  who,  finding  that  he  was 
likely  to  escape  detection,  had  ventured  back  to  his  cottage, 
came  in  and  had  tea  with  them ;  but  Barney  was  in  a  great 
deal  of  pain  just  then,  and  Ronald  had  no  heart  to  join  them, 
though  he  was  very  weary. 

The  old  woman  put  the  little  ones  to  bed  early;  and  IMark 
said  he  would  go  into  Cleve  to  get  something  from  the  doctor 
to  make  his  boy  sleep  ;  but  iMother  Brewer  muttered  that  there 
was  uo  need  for  that;  he'd  sleep  sound  enough  before  many 
hours  were  over ;  and  Mark  gave  up  his  intention,  and  sat 
down  moodily  by  the  fire. 

So  they  went  on  till  about  eight  o'clock ;  about  that  time 
the  pain  ceased  entirely,  but  Barney  was  almost  too  exhausted 
to  speak.  He  asked  llonald  once  to  move,  that  father  might 
kiss  him,  and  bade  Mother  Brewer  say  "  Good-night"  to  little 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  tell  them  to  be  good;  and  after  that 
he  went  to  sleep,  and  they  thought  he  would  wake  refreshed, 
as  he  had  often  done  before  after  similar  attacks.  He  was 
quiet  for  more  than  two  hours;  then  he  ronsed  himself,  and 
Mark  gave  him  a  little  water.  The  child  looked  at  him 
intently  for  an  instant,  and  said,  "  Thank  you,  father.  Please 
say  prayers."  And  3Iark  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  little  bed; 
and  buried  his  face  in  the  coverlet. 

Barney  felt  feebly  for  Ronald's  hand:  "You'll  set  the 
'sample,  Ronald,  and  then  you'll  come."  And  the  light  grasp 
I'elaxed,  and  Barney  fell  asleep,  to  wake  to  the  sight  of  the 
golden  streets,  and  the  river  of  pure  water,  and  the  fruits  of 
the  trees  of  everlasting  life. 


CLEYE    HALL. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


BRIGHT  were  the  gleams  of  the  December  sun,  although 
it  had  already  passed  its  low  meridian  height,  as  Edward 
V^ivian  and  3Ir.  Lester  walked  slowly  through  the  Cleve  Woods 
on  their  way  to  the  Hall.  They  spoke  of  many  things ;  the 
past  pei'haps  more  than  the  present  or  the  future.  It  was  a 
natural  feeling,  which  would  fain  linger  over  the  recollections 
connected  with  those  scenes  of  happier  days  now,  before  the 
sentence  might  again  be  spoken  which  was  to  be  the  decree 
of  separation  from  them  for  ever. 

Mr.  Vivian  was  greatly  depressed,  yet  a  tone  of  only  par- 
tially subdued  indignation  occasionally  escaped  him.  He  felt 
bitterly  the  doubt  which  had  been  cast  upon  his  word,  and 
would  with  difficulty  listen  to  Mr.  Lester's  explanation.  It 
was  useless,  he  said,  to  tell  him  that  he  was  not  doubted.  If 
it  were  so,  why  was  he  not  received,  and  the  wrong  acknow- 
ledged ?  There  could  be  no  alternative  in  such  a  case.  Even 
duty  to  his  father  seemed  scarcely  to  call  upon  him  to  enter 
into  moi'e  detailed  explanations. 

"  Years  ago  it  might  have  been  so,"  was  Mr.  Lester's  reply. 
"  But  you  are  fighting  against  a  feeling  first  fostered  as  a  duty, 
and  encouraged  the  more  since  it  has  been  against  natural 
inclination.  General  Vivian  fears  himself.  He  has  rested 
upon  his  sense  of  justice,  and  made  an  idol  of  it;  and  now, 
conscious  of  his  own  weakness — such,  at  least,  he  would  call 
it, — he  dreads  being  betrayed  into  an  offence  against  it.  He 
thinks  himself  bound  to  treat  you  as  he  would  a  stranger. 
There  is  prejudice  in  this,  the  rankling  of  former  grievances, 
but  he  does  not  see  it.  His  Is  the  spirit  of  the  old  Roman 
who  would  sit  in  judgment  upon  his  children,  and  condemn 
them." 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vivian,  hastily 
"We  are  Christians,  not  heathens." 

"  Even  so.  But  General  Vivian's  principles  are — I  sa  / 
the  word  in  all  reverence,  and,  of  course,  with  great  limitatioa 
— heathen.  I  mean  that  he  has  formed  his  own  standard  of 
right,  without  luoking  at  that  given  in  the  Bible.  If  justice 
were  the  one  virtue  alone  to  be  upheld,  where  should  we  all 
be?" 

Mr.  Vivian  stopped  suddenly.     "  It  goads  me,"  he  said ; 


474  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  it  makes  me  feel  that  I  would  f^ive  up  evorytliing  and  go. 
If  it  were  not  for  my  chlldreu  I  think  I  could." 

"  My  dear  Vivian,  that  would  be  an  action  which  you 
would  repent  for  ever.  You  have  no  rrj;ht  to  act  upon  pride, 
llemeniber — forgive  7ne  for  saying  it — that  your  owu  conduct 
was  the  first  cause  of  offence.  If  it  has  since  beeu  exagge- 
rated and  misconstrued,  yet  the  original  evil  lies  at  your  own 
door." 

"  You  are  right,  Lester.  I  must  bear  all.  And  if  I  could 
see  him — Oh  !  were  he  ever  so  stern — ever  so  cruel — all  an- 
gry feelings  would  go.  I  could  thnjw  myself  at  his  feet  and 
ask  for  pardon,  as  in  my  childish  days.  But  he  will  not  see 
me ;  there  is  no  hope  of  it." 

3Ii'.  Lester,  without  answering,  opened  the  little  gate  which 
led  into  Mildred's  flower-garden.  From  thence  a  private  door 
admitted  them  into  the  morning-room.  It  was  euipty.  Mil- 
dred was  with  the  General ;  but  her  work-basket  and  books 
were  lying  about ;  she  had  been  there  only  lately. 

"  Eighteen  3'ears  !"  murmured  Mr.  Vivian.  ''  It  seems  but 
yesterday."  lie  went  to  the  lower  end  of  the  room,  and  drew 
aside  the  curtain  from  the  picture  hanging  there ;  looked  at  it 
for  several  minutes,  then  covered  it  again,  and  sat  down  with- 
out making  any  comment. 

"  If  Ilonald  should  come,  as  he  said,  he  must  wait  here," 
observed  IMr.  Lester. 

"  Yes."  But  Mr.  Vivian  would  take  no  comfort  from  the 
thought  of  Ronald's  promise.  "  My  father  wants  proof;  and 
words  are  no  proofs  to  him,"  he  said  indignantly.  "  And  the 
boy  will  not  speak  to  his  father's  prejudice.  Who  could  ask 
it  of  him?     I  would  not  accept  restoration  on  such  terms." 

"  He  was  bent  upon  being  here,"  observed  Mr.  Lester. 

"  He  was  feverish  and  excited  yesterday,  no  doubt.  If  he 
had  anything  that  would  really  help  us,  he  would  have  come 
forward  before." 

"  He  was  not  in  a  state  to  do  so,"  remarked  IMr.  Lester. 

*'  I  can't  hope,  Lester.     I  would  rather  fear  the  worst.'' 

And  Mr.  Lester  was  silent,  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Will  the  General  see  me,  Greaves  ?" 

Greaves,  now  fully  aware  of  the  interests  at  stake  in  the 
family,  looked  important,  and  was  doubtful.  The  General 
had  slept  badly,  and  was,  he  thought,  inclined  to  doze :  but 
he  would  see. 

Ella  and  Raohcl  appeared  at  the  window,  and  drew  back, 


CLEYE   HALL.  475 

startled  at  seeing  gentlemen ;  but  they  soon  came  forward 
again,  laughing.  Rachel's  bright  eyes  were  raised  lovingly  to 
her  father,  as  she  exclaimed,  "  We  didn't  know  you  were 
here,  Papa.  Ella  had  been  at  the  farm,  and  was  coming  back, 
and  I  said  I  would  walk  with  her.  Mrs.  llobinson  was  com- 
ing too,  and  said  she  would  go  back  with  me.  There  wasn't 
any  harm,  was  there  ?" 

"  None  at  all,  my  child ;  but  you  mustn't  disturb  us  now." 

*'  Let  them  come  in,"  said  Mr.  Vivian.  He  seemed  glad 
of  anything  which  would  distract  his  thoughts ;  and  Ella  and 
Kachel  were  admitted. 

"  We  saw  Mark  Wood,  Papa,  as  we  were  comiag,"  said 
Rachel;  "  he  looked  so  very  sad;  he  was  driving  Hardmau's 
little  cart,  and  said  he  was  going  to  take  Ronald  out.  I  didn't 
like  to  ask  if  Barney  was  worse." 

"  He  died  last  night,  Rachel.     I  was  going  to  tell  you." 

Rachel  walked  away  to  the  window.  Her  father  followed 
her.     "  We  mustn't  grieve  for  him,  Rachel." 

''No,  Papa,  only — I  will  try  not;"  and  she  struggled 
against  her  tears,  and  smiled,  and  then  gave  way  again,  and 
cried  bitterly.     "  I  don't  want  him  back,  but  I  loved  him  so." 

J]lla  looked  very  grave  and  sorrowful,  yet  she  could  not 
quite  feel  with  Rachel.  She  began  telling  her  father  about 
Barney,  and  IMr.  Vivian  was  interested,  and  made  her  repeat 
to  him  what  Ronald  had  done  for  the  child ;  and  when  Greaves 
returned  and  said  that  the  General  was  ready,  and  would  see 
Mr.  Lester,  if  he  would  walk  up  stairs,  though  he  turned  pale 
for  the  instant,  yet  he  went  on  talking  to  Ella,  whilst  Rachel 
sat  down  on  a  stool  in  the  recess  of  the  window,  gazing  at  the 
pale  sunlight  which  still  flickered  upon  the  lawn. 

Mr.  Lester  passed  through  the  dressing-room,  and  found 
Mildred  there.  The  door  into  the  bed-room  was  open,  so  that 
he  could  only  press  her  hand  kindly,  and  ask  a  few  ordinary 
questions.  The  General's  hearing  was  wonderfully  quick  for 
his  age,  and  he  dared  not  stay  to  talk  with  her. 

"  You  will  find  him  very  weak,"  she  said,  in  an  under- 
tone, when  he  asked  what  she  thought  of  her  father;  "  but  he 
has  referred  to  nothing ;  only  he  has  been  trying  to  write  this 
morning,  sitting  up  in  bed.  Now  he  is  dressed,  and  in  his 
aim-chair." 

The  General  looked  at  least  eighty,  but  that  might  have 
been  his  position,  supported  by  jiillows,  and  with  oidy  a  ])ar- 
ti;il   li'jht  falling  uj)nii   him   thruiigh   the   half-closed  curtains. 


470  CLEVE   HALL. 

Ho  spoke  with  tolcrablo  firmness,  and  tlianlced  jMr.  Lester  for 
coming,  and  acccj)tcd  his  offer  of  reading  to  him. 

*'  Mikh-cd  is  not  strong  enough  to  read  much  to  nie,"  ho 
said;  "and  ElUi  has  been  out,  they  say,  this  morning.  1 
shoukl  like  to  hear  tlic  Morning  Lessons  for  the  day."  He 
spoke  decidedly,  as  if  he  did  not  choose  any  other  subject  to 
be  discussed. 

Mr.  Lester  turned  over  the  pages  of  his  Bible  slowly,  and 
remarked  that  in  another  week  it  would  be  Christmas  Day. 

"  Yes  ;  1  forgot  it  was  so  neai*,  till  Mildred  reminded  nie. 
She  will  receive  your  lists  of  the  poor,  as  usual." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Sir.  The  poor  people  .'ve  extremely 
grateful." 

"It  is  no  kindness,  Mr.  Lester;  it  is  their  right.  I  am 
their  steward." 

"  I  wish  all  persons  with  property  would  think  the  same, 
Sir;  but  it  is  in  many  cases  a  difficult  lesson  to  teach." 

"  I  learnt  it  in  my  childhood,  from  warning.  When  I 
came  into  poscs.sion  of  my  property,  I  vowed  that  the  pocu' 
should  never  be  defrauded." 

"  It  is  a  happy  thought  for  old  age,  General,  that  the  vow 
has  been  kept;  and  yet " 

"  Well,  Sir,  have  you  any  fault  to  find  with  it  ?"  and  the 
General  turned  his  keen  eyes  upon  Mr.  Lester. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  completeness  of  God's  demands 
upon  us,"  replied  Mr.  Lester;  "that  one  good  deed  will  not 
stand  in  the  stead  of  another." 

The  General  was  silent,  biit  there  was  an  uncomfortable, 
nervous  twitching  about  his  mouth. 

Mr.  Lester  again  turned  to  the  Bible,  and  opened  it,  not 
at  the  lesson  for  the  day,  but  at  the  Epistle  of  St.  James  : 
"  Whosoever  shall  keep  the  whole  law,  and  yet  offend  in  one 
point,  he  is  guilty  of  all."  "  That  has  always  struck  me  <ts 
one  of  the  most  fearful  texts  in  the  Bible,"  he  said.  "  It  strikes 
at  the  root  of  such  a  common  error.  jMay  I  say  to  you,  dear 
Sir,  that  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  very  much  since  our  part- 
ing yesterday?" 

It  was  an  immense  effort  to  him,  and  he  watched  the 
General's  countenance  with  an  anxiety  which  made  his  voice 
tremble. 

"  You  mean  rightly,  j\Ir.  Lester;  go  on." 

"  You  are  most  kind,  most  thoughtful,  and  considerate  fol 


CLEVE    HALL.  477 

your  poor  neighbors,  Sir.  It  seems  strange  to  beg  that  you 
will  be  equally  so  toward  ycur  son." 

"  My  conscience  is  clear  upon  that  point,"  replied  the 
General,  "  and  my  judgment,  Mr.  Lester,  lies  with  God.  It  I 
have  wronged  my  son,  I  will  repair  the  wrong." 

"And  see  him.  Sir;  hear  his  confession;  restore  him  to 
your  love;  that  is  what  he  asks?" 

The  General  tried  to  take  up  a  paper  which  lay  upon  the 
table,  but  his  hand  trembled  too  much,  "  I  have  tried  to 
write  it,"  he  murmured  to  himself. 

Mr.  Lester  interrupted  him.  "  But  will  you  not  tell  me, 
dear  Sir?  Speaking  is  better  than  writing;  there  is  more 
truth  in  it." 

*'No,  Sir,  no;  I  can't.  Mr.  Lester,  you  mustn't  urge 
it.  I  am  old  —  God  knows  I  have  been  tried  —  you  must 
leave  me." 

"  I  woiild  speak  to  you,  Sir,  because  you  are  old.  Life 
may  be  very  short.  I  would  not  have  you  go,  unforgiving,  to 
your  grave." 

"I  do  forgive  —  all.  I  did  him  wrong,  perchance.  He 
mayn't  have  done  what  I  thought.  He  says  it ;  iMiss  Camp- 
bell says  it.  Let  it  be  tried  and  proved;  but,  let  me  rest,  let 
me  rest,  for  my  days  are  few." 

"  There  will  be  rest  in  mercy,"  replied  Mr.  Lester, 
solemnly;  ''for  so  only  can  we  hope  for  mercy.  General 
Vivian,  at  whatever  risk,  I  must  speak  to  you  as  God's  minister. 
Whilst  you  thought  your  son  had  dishonored  your  name,  there 
was  doubtless  an  excuse  for  the  severity  with  which  he  was 
treated.  Whether  it  was  right  to  cast  off  his  children  also, 
need  not  now  be  discussed.  But  you  have  at  length  the 
proof  that  you  suspected  him  wrongly.  Not  the  proof  which 
AV'ould  stand,  it  may  be,  in  a  court  of  justice,  but  the  word  of 
an  honorable  man,  and  the  corresponding  testimony  of  a  lady, 
who,  whatever  may  be  your  prejudice  against  her  family,  lays 
claim  to  universal  respect.  If  you  still  persist  in  your  suspi- 
cions, if  'judgment  without  mercy'  is  still  to  be  your  motto, 
think  what  will  be  your  condition  when  you  are  summoned  to 
that  awful  account,  at  which  our  only  hope  must  be  in  the 
'mercy  that  rejoiceth  against  judgment.'  " 

The  General's  countenance  underwent  many  changes 
during  this  speech, — surprise,  anger, — then  a  more  chastened, 
Bolemnized  feeling;  but  it  would  have  seemed  that  tho 
indomitable  will  remained  unshaken.      "  3Ir.  Lester,  I  asked 


478  CLEVE   UALL. 

you  to  read  to  mo,"  he  said,  his  voice  sounding  hollow  and 
tremulous. 

And  Mr.  Lester  read,  and  when  he  had  finished  reading, 
he  knelt  in  prayer;  and  the  General's  voice  was  heard  in  the 
confession,  that  he  was  a  miserable  sinner,  that  he  had  erred 
and  strayed  from  God's  waj's  like  a  lost  sheep.  At  the  close 
Mr.  Lester  paused,  remained  for  a  few  moments  in  silent 
petition,  and  rose. 

The  General  turned  to  him  hastily :  "  Your  prayers  are 
short,  Sir,"  he  said. 

''I  leave  it  to  yourself,  General,  to  pray;  'Forgive  us  our 
trespasses  as  we  forgive  them  that  trespass  against  us.' " 

The  old  man  turned  away  his  head,  and  wept. 

A  knock  was  heard  at  the  door;  it  was  Mildred.  She 
came  in  and  stood  by  the  General's  chair. 

He  gave  her  his  hand  without  looking  up :  "  Mildred, 
child,  your  father  is  very  weak." 

"  You  have  been  tried,  dear  Sir,  very  much.  It  is  no 
wonder." 

"  Mr.  Lester  would  have  me  see  him,  Mildred.  I  would 
do  it,  if  it  were  right, — if  it  were  good ;  but  it  mustn't  be, — 
there  is  no  proof.  My  people  would  be  sacrificed ;  and  tha 
Campbells, — they  are  not  to  be  depended  on.  Years  ago  they 
defrauded  and  ruined  us.  He  married  a  Campbell,  and  they 
uphold  him.  The  boy,  too, — it  would  all  be  ruin."  He 
spoke  with  difficulty ;  his  eyes  were  dulled,  and  his  voice  was 
weak.  Old  feelings  of  dislike  and  prejudice  wore  working 
together,  with  more  newly-excited  mistrust,  to  cloud  a  mind 
already,  in  a  degree,  enfeebled  by  illness. 

''Don't  think  of  the  future,  my  dearest  Father;  let  it  be 
as  you  will.  See  him,  that  is  all  we  ask, — all  he  wovdd  ask 
either." 

"  But  Mildred,  if  I  see  him, — help  me, — I  said  I  wouldn't, 
— I  must  keep  my  vow.     I  mustn't  yield." 

"  You  said  it  when  you  thought  him  guilty  of  a  grievous 
offence,  dearest  Father;  he  comes  now  to  prove  his  innocence." 

"Proof!  proof!"  The  General  repeated  the  words  to 
Iiimself.  again  and  again.  Then  he  said  suddenly,  "  Is  he 
changed?" 

"Not  as  much  as  I  expected;  he  looks  older,  of  course. 
But  he  is  changed  in  mind  wonderfully." 

The    General  shook   his   head,   and   motioned    her   from 


CLEVE    HALL.  479 

him  :  "  You  tempt  me, — go."     His  complexiou  became  of  a 
livid  paleness. 

Mr.  Lester  gave  him  some  water,  aud  he  recovered  a  little, 
and  murmured  "  To-morrow." 

Poor  Mildred  looked  at  Mr.  Lester  ia  despair:  "Aud 
Ronald  Vivian  is  here,"  she  said,  "  on  business." 

The  General  caught  at  the  word  as  a  relief:  "Business! 
let  me  hear  it?     I  am  well  enough  now." 

"  Impossible  !"  whispered  Mildred  to  Mr.  Lester. 

To  her  surprise  Mr.  Lester  answered  quietly  also,  "  I  will 
go  to  him ;  perhaps  it  may  be  as  well." 

He  left  the  room.  The  General  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
perfectly  still.  Mildred  sat  down  by  him.  The  minutes  were 
very  long.  She  dared  not  speak  to  him  again.  Steps  were 
heard  along  the  corridor, — in  the  dressing-room.  The  General 
moved,  and  pushed  away  the  footstool,  and  placed  his  writing- 
case  before  him. 

"  May  we  come  in  ?"  Mr.  Lester  entered,  Ronald  with 
him  :  another  shadow  darkened  the  doorway. 

The  General  bent  his  head  stiffly,  with  all  his  former  pre- 
cision of  manner.  Ronald  scarcely  returned  the  greeting. 
His  eye  took  a  rapid  survey  of  the  room,  aud  rested  on  Mildred. 
She  moved  to  go. 

"  If  it  is  private  business,  Mildred,  you  can  leave  us,"  said 
the  General.  "  Young  geutlemau,  you  look  ill;  you  had  better 
sit  down." 

"  Miss  A^ivian,  pray  stay."  Ronald  drew  near  the  table, 
and  rested  one  hand  upon  it ;  his  countenance,  naturally  pale 
from  illness,  was  ghastly  in  its  expression,  but  his  eye  was  calm 
aud  cold.  "  I  have  intruded  upon  you,  General  Vivian,"  he 
began, — 

"No  intrusion,  young  gentleman.  I  have  had  a  slight  ill- 
ness, but  I  am  recovering.     Can  I,  in  any  way,  help  you?"^ 

"  I  have  no  claim  upon  you,  Sir.  I  am  the  sou  ol — Captain 
Vivian." 

Mildred's  eye  glanced  uneasily  at  her  father;  the  nervous 
motion  of  his  mouth  was  visible  again. 

"Captain  Vivian  may  have  done  my  family  injury;  yet  I 
would  not  visit  the  injury  upon  his  son.  What  do  you  ask 
of  me?" 

Ronald  paused. 

"  I  beg  you  to  explain  yourself  quickly,"  repeated  tho 
General,  raiher  sternly.      "  What  do  you  need  ?" 


480  CLEVE    HALL. 

Ronald  approached  nearer.  His  fi^-urc  was  ereetj  wliilat 
pride  was  giviiij;-  its  impress  to  his  couutenance. 

'<  Speak,  Sir,"  exclaimed  the  General. 

And  the  tall  form  bent  as  tliouuh  crushed  by  a  lui^hty 
load,  and  the  at^ony  of  humiliation  convulsed  every  feature,  as, 
laying  a  paper  upon  the  table,  Ronald  said,  "  You  require  proof 
of  your  son's  innocence,  General  Vivian;  you  have  it." 

JMr.  Lester  pushed  a  chair  towards  him,  but  he  still  stood. 

"Read  it,  Slildrcd/'  said  the  General;  and  Mildred  road 
tremblingly : — 

"  I  forged  the  bill.  They  can  take  all  I  have  to  repay 
themselves. 

''John  Vivian." 

The  General  caught  the  paper  from  her  hand,  and  there 
was  a  long,  death-like  silence.  He  looked  at  the  words  fear- 
fully,— doubtfully. 

The  shadow  passed  from  the  doorway,  and  Edward  Vivian 
knelt  by  his  side.      "  Father,  forgive, — forgive  mo  !" 

The  General  sat  as  one  paralyzed;  but  his  hand  rested, 
with  a  tremulous  touch,  on  his  sou's  head. 

"  Pardon  me.  Father  !     Speak  to  me  !" 

The  white  lips  moved,  and  the  glassy  eyes  became  dim  ; 
and,  leaning  forward,  the  old  man  threw  his  arm  round  his 
son's  neck  and  kissed  him. 

He  looked  up  again,  and  his  eye  wandered  for  an  instant 
round  the  room,  as  if  in  search  of  Ronald ;  but  even  in  that 
moment  he  had  left  the  apartment,  unnoticed  by  all  save  Mr. 
Lester ;  and  the  General,  worn  and  exhausted,  could  only  say, 
"  I  was  so  wrong,  Edward,  so  wrong.  God  forgive  me  !  I 
was  so  wrong." 

The  bells  rang  merrily  from  the  tower  of  Encombe  church, 
on  Christmas  morning;  cheerful  were  the  greetings,  hearty 
the  good  wishes,  which  met  at  the  entrance  of  the  old  Norman 
porch  ;  and  fervently  went  up  thanksgivings  to  Heaven,  whilst 
the  notes  of  the  Angels'  hymn  rose  and  echoed,  and  died  away 
amidst  the  arches.  Eighteen  years  before,  Mr.  Vivian  had 
knelt  in  that  church,  proud  in  self-reliance,  a  young  man  ;  with 
the  hopes,  the  fears,  the  follies,  the  offences  of  youth  upon  him. 
He  knelt  there  now,  humbled,  chastened,  ponitent,  yet  unutter- 
ably thankful,  with  one  prayer,  earnest  above  all  others,  that 


CLEVE    HALL.  481 

his  clilldroa  might  never  learn  the  same  lesson  at  the  same 
price  of  sin  and  suffering. 

That  day  was  the  first  of  Christmas-days  spent  as  in  tho 
olden  time  at  Cleve  Hall,  since  sorrow  and  death  had  laid 
their  chill  grasp  upon  it,  and  rendered  it  desolate. 

The  General,  infirm  and  shaken  though  he  was,  sat  at  the 
head  of  his  table,  and  told  of  his  plans  for  the  poor,  and  dis- 
cussed altei'ations  in  his  fiirin,  and  seemed  to  forget  that  the 
lapse  of  years  could  be  a  diflBculty  in  the  way  of  his  son's  un- 
derstanding anything  which  he  wished  him  to  undertake;  and 
Mildred,  smiling  as  she  had  never  smiled  before  since  her 
sister's  death,  talked  with  Ella  of  what  must  be  done  to  make 
the  old  home  happy  in  its  new  character,  and  devised  schemes 
by  which  they  might  do  all  she  needed  iu  the  village ;  and 
read  with  her,  and  have  lessons,  and  be  constantly  with  her ; 
helping  her,  as  she  said,  to  grow  old  without  feeling  it. 

Mr.  Vivian's  feelings  were  mixed.  Moments  there  were 
when  he  paused  in  the  midst  of  his  children's  merriment,  to 
think  anxiously  of  Clement's  future  course,  and  watch  the 
impression  which  he  made  upon  his  grandfather;  or  to  recur 
to  the  memories  of  the  past,  and  dwell  upon  the  joys  which 
could  never  come  again.  But  the  sadness  was  transient,  the 
brightness  lasting ;  and  when  the  recollections  of  those  bygone 
days  most  oppressed  him,  he  could  think  upon  the  mercy 
vouchsafed  to  the  repentant  on  earth  as  the  type  of  the  free 
and  perfect  pardon  of  Heaven. 

It  was  a  glad  day  of  hope,  a  second  spring  in  winter,  the 
beginning  of  the  sunshine  which  was  to  gild  the  old  General's 
pathway,  for  the  few  remaining  years  of  his  earthly  existence. 

Mrs.  liobinson,  when  she  came  in  the  evening  to  drink 
Master  Edward's  health,  in  the  dining-room,  was  heard  to  say, 
as  she  went  back  to  the  servants'  hall,  that  it  did  one's  heart 
good  to  see  the  General  taking,  as  it  were,  a  new  lease  of  life ; 
and  Greaves,  as  partial  to  the  old  master  as  Mrs.  Eobinson 
was  to  the  young  one,  insisted  that  it  was  trouble  which  had 
furrowed  the  General's  check,  and  made  him  feeble  before  his 
time ;  and  now  that  trouble  was  gone,  who  was  to  say  that  tho 
best  landlord,  and  the  kindest  master  in  England,  was  not  to 
outlive  the  halcst  and  heartiest  among  them. 

And  there  was  gladness  at  the  Kectory,  quieter,  yet  poihaps, 

with  Mr.  Lester  and  Rachel,  even  fuller.     Mrs.  Campbell  and 

Bertha  were  with  them,  and  although  missing  the  children's 

mirth,  it  was  impossible  to  feel  otherwise  than   grateful  and 

21 


482  CLEVE    UALL. 

happy  at  the  load  of  anxiety  and  responsil)ility  -which  had  been 
removed.  The  object  desired  for  years  liad  been  attained,  and 
if,  as  is  the  case  in  tlie  attainment  of  all  human  wishes,  success 
was  acconipaaied  by  alloy,  it  seemed  unthankful  to  allow  the 
mind  to  rest  upon  it.  Bertha's  energy  already  made  her  turn 
to  the  thought  of  being  useful  to  Eachel,  and  finding  employ- 
ment amongst  the  poor,  more  congenial  than  that  training  of 
the  mind  which  she  had  yet  to  practise  successfully  for  herself; 
and  but  for  one  thought,  she  could  have  called  it  the  happiest 
Christmas  Day  that  had  been  granted  her  for  many  a  year. 

There  was  an  evening  service  ;  the  church  was  full.  ]Jertha 
sat  near  the  east  end  with  llachel,  and  was  amongst  the  last  to 
depart.  Mr.  Lester  was  detained  in  the  "'estry,  and  they  waited 
for  him,  until  all  the  lights  were  extinguished,  except  those  in 
the  chancel. 

They  walked  to  the  lower  cud  of  the  church,  and  looked 
back.  "  Passing  from  darkness  to  light,  like  it  will  be  from 
earth  to  Heaven,"  whispered  Rachel. 

A  sigh  answered  her,  but  it  did  not  come  from  Bertha. 
Some  one  passed  her  quickly,  from  the  side  aisle,  and  went  out 
into  the  porch. 

A  minute  afterwards  Mr.  Lester  joined  them,  and  they  left 
the  church.  The  moon  was  shining  on  the  tombstones,  and  a 
long  line  of  pale  light  was  traced  upon  the  distant  sea. 

"  Papa,"  said  Rachel,  ''  should  you  mind  ?  I  should  to  seo 
where  Barney  is  buried."  Mr.  Lester  took  her  hand,  and  the^ 
went  on  together.     Bertha  lingered  behind. 

"  Miss  Campbell  \"  She  started;  though  the  voice  was  well 
known,  it  was  very  changed. 

''  Ronald  !  here !  That  ought  not  to  be  ;  it  is  very  impru- 
dent." 

He  tried  to  laugh.  "  Mrs.  Robinson  allowed  me.  I  am 
at  the  Farm  now,  and  well." 

"  Yes,  1  heard  that.  Mr.  Lester  told  me;  I  had  hoped  to 
see  you,  to  thank  you." 

He  would  not  hear  her  gratitude.  "1  go  to-morrow,"  he 
said :  "  you  will  still  think  of  and  pray  for  me." 

"Go?  AVhere?  So  soon?  Surely  General  Yivian,  Mr. 
Lester " 

He  interrupted  her  :  ''They  have  done  all,  and  more  than 
all,  I  could  have  dared  to  expect.  They  would  do  far  moro 
than  I  could  allow." 

''  That  may  be  pride,  Ronald." 


CLEVE    HALL.  483 

"  Pride  !  Miss  Campbell !"  lie  repeated  the  word  bitterly  ; 
"  pride  for  me !  yet  it  may  be  so.  If  it  is,  I  pray  God  to 
make  me  humble.  But  I  do  not  feel  that  it  is.  They  wo  Jd  pro- 
vide for  me.  I  would  accept  their  help  but  oqly  to  provide 
for  myself.  My  father's  property  is  heavily  mortgaged.  Wheu 
the  debt  to  General  Vivian  is  paid,  if  anything  should  remain 
of  the  little  that  I  might  once  have  expected  to  inherit,  it  must 
of  course  be  appropriated  for  my  father's  comfort.  I  go  to 
make  my  own  way  in  the  world." 

"Alone?" 

"  Where  my  father  is,  there  is  my  duty,  and  there  will  be 
my  home." 

"Oh,  Ronald,  what  a  sacrifice  !" 

"You  would  not  wish  it  to  be  otherwise;  you,  who  first 
taught  me  the  claims  of  duty." 

"  No,  I  cannot,  and  yet  the  example  may  be  terrible." 

"  I  do  riot  fear  it,"  he  said,  meekly  :  "  God  who  saved  mo 
from  it,  before  I  sought  Him,  will  strengthen  me  to  withstand 
it  when  I  have  learnt  to  seek  Ilim." 

Bertha  gave  him  her  hand, — but  her  voice  failed  her. 

"  From  darkness  to  light,  from  earth  to  Heaven,"  said  Ro- 
nald, thoughtfully.  "  I  shall  not  forget  it."  He  looked  to- 
wards the  little  new-made  grave,  beside  which  Rachel  and  Mr. 
Lester  were  standing. 

They  drew  near  it.  Rachel  was  the  first  to  see  Ronald. 
She  ran  up  to  him  directly.  "I  didn't  know  it  was  you,  Ro- 
nald ;  but  you  don't  mind  our  coming,  do  you  ?  I  asked  papa 
if  I  might." 

She  felt  instinctively  that  the  little  grave  was  his  charge. 

"  AVho  could  mind  Rachel  ?  No  one  has  more  claim  to  be 
here  than  you,  who  made  him  happy." 

"  He  doesn't  suffer  now,"  said  Rachel.    "  I  think  of  that." 

"I  try  to  think  of  it  too,"  said  Ronald.  "I  shall  more, 
by-and  by.  "When  I  am  gone,  Rachel,  perhaps  Mr.  Lester 
will  let  you  plant  some  flowers  here.     I  should  like  that." 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  indeed  I  will ;"  but  Rachel  was  per- 
plexed; she  could  not  understand  what  he  meant  by  going, 
and  was  too  shy  to  ask.  She  turned  to  her  father,  who  had 
been  talking  with  Bertha. 

"  You  must  go  home,  my  child,"  said  jNlr.  Lester,  "  it  is 
too  cold  for  you, — and  for  Miss  Campbell, — and,  Ronald,  for 
you  too;"  and  he  kindly  touched  Ronald's  shoulder. 


484  CLEVE   HALL. 

"  Good  nii2,lit,  Ronald.  Did  you  understand  ?  I  promise, 
if  papa  doesn't  mind,"  said  Kacliel. 

"  Good  b'yc,  llachel."  He  kept  licr  hand  for  a  moment, 
then  let  it  fall  suddenly;   "your  word  needs  no  promise." 

lie  watched  her,  so  did  Mr.  Lester,  as  she  walked  with 
Bertha  through  the  churchyard,  till  the  gate  closed  behind 
them. 

Then  Mr.  Lester  said  :  "  You  go  to-morrow,  Ronald  ?" 

"  To-morrow,  Sir.  The  vessel  is  even  now  ready,  and  ray 
father  waits  for  me.  "When  my  way  for  the  future  is  clear,  I 
will  write." 

**  May  God  guard  you,  Ronald,  hitherto,  as  Tie  has  guarded 
you  before.     You  have  no  wishes  that  I  can  fiiliil  ?" 

"I  had  one,  Sir,  but  it  has  been  told  to  Rachel.  I  have 
no  other,  but — that  my  name  may  be  forgotten." 

Mr.  Lester's  voice  faltered  :  "  That  should  not  be  the  wish 
at  your  age.     Life  is  before  you  to  redeem  it." 

"  In  another  country,  in  another  home ;  but  never  here," 
replied  Ronald. 

Mr.  Lester  was  silent. 

"  I  am  not  desponding,"  continued  Ronald ;  "  the  load  is 
taken  from  me ;  I  can  breathe  freely.  Mr.  Lester,  I  would 
not  have  you  think  of  me  as  weak." 

"  Weak  !  oh  no,  Ronald, — most  strong.  1  only  pray  you 
may  feel  that  there  is  hope  always  on  earth." 

"  I  have  a  work  to  do,"  replied  Ronald,  "therefore  I  must 
have  hope." 

"  And  it  will  be  accomplished,"  replied  Mr.  Lester.  "  The 
prayers  and  the  labors  of  such  a  son  will  surely  be  answered. 
God  bless  you !"  He  wrung  Ronald's  hand  and  left  him. 
And  Ronald,  kneeling  by  Barney's  grave,  prayed  fervently; 
and  rose  strengthened  and  comforted,  whilst  still  the  littlo 
voice  seemed  sounding  in  his  ear,  ''  You'll  set  the  'sample, 
Ronald,  and  then  you'll  come." 

Cleve  Hall  yet  stands,  gray  and  stem  as  him  who  was  once 
its  master ;  the  sea  washes  the  sandy  beach  round  the  dark 
Headland ;  the  Encombe  Hills  frown  over  the  deep  ravine. 
And,  whilst  changes  of  joy  and  sorrow,  of  life  and  death,  have 
passed  over  the  human  hearts  which  sought  their  resting-place 
amidst  those  scenes  of  beauty,  the  name  of  Vivian  Ixwen 
associated  with  them,  as  in  bygone  years;  the  heirloom  de- 
sccndiiiLf  from  iiL'ueratiou  to  treucration. 


CLEYE   HALL.  485 

Its  eclio  has  been  lieard  even  in  distant  lands.  There  is  a 
kile  tokl  of  one — an  exile,  lonely,  unaided,  exposed  ta  many 
and  dread  temptations  —  who  entered  upon  life  with  the 
inheritance  of  a  stained  named  and  a  ruined  fortune,  and  looked 
back  upon  it  with  a  conscience  which  angels  might  approve, 
and  a  reputation  which  princes  might  have  envied.  It  is  said 
that  he  labored, — and  successfully, — for  one  object;  the 
restoration  of  a  father  who  had  sunk,  it  might  have  seemed, 
beyond  hope;  and  that,  in  the  progress  of  that  work, — spent 
for  the  most  part  in  the  drudgery  of  a  merchant's  office — he 
gathered  round  him,  by  the  force  of  an  intense  earnestness, 
young  and  old,  the  cultivated  and  the  ignorant, — warning, 
guiding,  aiding  them  on  their  path  to  Heaven. 

They  tell  of  him,  that  he  dwelt  apart,  mingling  little  with 
the  gayeties  of  life ;  a  man  of  quiet  exterior,  gentle  and  reserved, 
and  with  the  deep  traces  of  early  suffering  stamped  upon  his 
brow.  The  happiness  of  a  loving  home  was  never  his,  the 
voices  of  childhood  never  gladdened  his  hearth, — it  may  be 
that  he  dreaded  to  transmit  the  stain  which  he  himself  had 
felt  so  deeply.  But  the  widow  and  the  orphan  were  his 
family ;  the  desolate,  the  poor,  the  tempted  were  his  friends : 
and  when  the  honored  Vivians  of  Cleve  Hall  recount  the 
histories  of  their  race,  the  name  of  the  exiled  Ronald  stands 
first  in  the  list  of  those  who  have  been  prized  on  earth  because 
they  sought  their  inheritance  in  Heaven. 


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